


Tumblr Prompts

by Glare



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, See Within, chapters tagged individually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-17 23:29:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 34,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9351233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glare/pseuds/Glare
Summary: A collection of filled tumblr prompts.





	1. Prompt: Wingmen

**Author's Note:**

> What's up kids. I've been struggling with some writer's block over the past few weeks, so I took some tumblr prompts to try and work through that. If you follow me over there, these should look familiar. Just thought I'd post them here, too, for those who are not tumblr citizens.
> 
> Each chapter will be its own prompt, and tagged in the authors notes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: M  
> Prompt: We were both playing wingman for our friends who have now decided to go home together, and after five minutes of conversation we fucking hate each other let's fuck it out.  
> Additional Tags: Padme Amidala/Bail Organa/Breha Organa (mentioned), Modern College AU, Hate sex

He’s here again—that kid with the blonde hair and blue eyes that would be right up his alley if they weren’t attached to that damned mouth. Even from the other side of the bar, Obi-Wan can hear him. Too loud, too enthusiastic, too drunk despite the fact that the night has only just begun. He and his posse are packed tight into a booth, empty glasses strewn across the table, swapping stories of the week’s conquests and capitulations.

On nights like these there is usually a woman in his lap, brown hair spilling down her shoulders and her eyes bright with drink. They make a pretty picture, Obi-Wan would grudgingly admit, but the rumors around campus have never solidly pinned down whether or not Anakin Skywalker and Padme Amidala are actually fucking. Instead, they seem intent on leading the student body of Coruscant University on the world’s longest wild goose chase. They show up at the local watering hole, tailed by their posse of adoring underclassmen, and make a big show of being seen together. By the end of the night, though, they usually end up going home with someone else on their arm.

It’s happening now, as Amidala saunters over to the bar under the pretense of refilling her glass. “Hey,” she says with a wry grin, drawing Obi-Wan’s attention from his own drink, “you should tell your friends that it’s not polite to stare.” She glances over his shoulder as the bartender sets something before her that’s colorful and small and undoubtedly packing more of a punch than Obi-Wan’s entire pint of cheap beer; he doesn’t have to look back to know who she throws a flirtatious wink to.

Bail and Breha have been dating since birth, as far as the university’s rumor mill is concerned; they may well have come out of the womb attached at the hip. They take the same classes, attend the same clubs, and rent a small apartment together off campus. Recently they’ve taken an interest in expanding their horizons, seeking out a third party to invite into their bed. Among the steadily growing list of rejections is Obi-Wan himself. As much as he enjoys their company, he has little interest in _enjoying_ their company and has since been relegated to wingman duties on these little scouting adventures. Judging by the way she smiles at them, leaning over the bar to emphasize the swell of her breasts, they may have just found a winner in Padme Amidala.

They abandon him by the time he’s halfway through his second pint, most of Amidala’s posse filing out shortly after. Skywalker remains, boots propped up on the table in a gross breach of social conduct. His very presence grates at Obi-Wan’s patience in ways he has never and will never try to understand. There are more important things to spend his time on than Anakin Skywalker’s poor manners.

He’s just about reached the bottom of the pint when it happens: a glass slamming down on the bar-top next to his own. “Fill ‘er up,” that infuriating voice calls to the bartender, and Obi-Wan’s free hand clenches without his express permission.

“I think you’ve had quite enough,” Obi-Wan drawls, drawing the attention of the man at his side.

Skywalker fixes him with a _look_ as though sizing him up, trying to decide whether or not to engage. “Maybe you just haven’t had enough.”

“Yes, well, some of us actually intend on going to class in the morning.”

“I pity you, then. The way classes are here, only morons really need to attend them.”

“Remember those words the next time you look at your grade point average.” Pulling his wallet from his coat to cover his tab, Obi-Wan takes his leave of Skywalker’s presence.

It’s not a long reprieve. He’s barely out the door, barely had time to light up a cigarette, before he’s being shoved into the alleyway beside the bar and pressed up against the brick. The cig falls from his grip and puts itself out on the pavement.

“Do we have a fucking problem?” Skywalker demands, up his face, breath drink-sour. He’s unsteady on his feet, but his grip is strong where it’s clenched in the front of Obi-Wan’s coat.

“I don’t know,” he sneers back. “Do we?”

Anakin’s free arm draws back, as though he intends to start something, but Obi-Wan is the most sober of the pair. He dodges the oncoming blow with relative ease in comparison to the concentration it took Skywalker to throw it, but the following scuffle is nothing to write home about. They’ve both had too much to drink for it to be a real fight—the world spins unpredictably before their eyes, throwing off balance and aim.

Eventually, though, Kenobi does triumph. Skywalker’s back hits the wall where Obi-Wan had been only a few minutes before, the latter’s hands wrapped around the column of Anakin’s throat. They’re drunk, and angry, and they aren’t even sure why, but that doesn’t stop Kenobi from catching the hitch in Skywalker’s breath when his fingers press down on the other man’s windpipe. It doesn’t stop the rush of visceral satisfaction at the feeling of Anakin’s arousal pressing against his hip; at knowing that _he_ has made Anakin undone. Obi-Wan can feel his own erection straining at the zip of his pants as they stare each other down, a heady tension between them.

“I hate you,” Skywalker snarls, right before he leans into the grip on his throat in order to catch Obi-Wan’s lips with his own.

It’s rough and biting, more teeth than tongue, as they fumble for each other’s belts in the shadow of the alley. A particularly strong bite breaks the skin of Obi-Wan’s lower lip, the metallic taste of blood drowning out the alcohol on their breath, and Anakin hisses when Kenobi responds in kind.

They catch their freed lengths between them, night-cold and calloused fingers dragging along skin with little finesse. There is a time and place for that; it’s not here. Here is for ragged breath, stifled gasps, bitter words as they drive each other toward the edge.

Skywalker moans into the muffle of Obi-Wan’s palm when he climaxes, painting their hands and their coats with the evidence of his orgasm; Kenobi follows shortly after.

Then there is silence. Silence as they tuck themselves away and silence as they do their best to clean themselves up. Obi-Wan has a handful of napkins stuffed in the pocket of his coat, which he shares with Skywalker. They don’t meet each other’s eyes, and pretend not to notice as their fingers brush in the handoff. When he takes a fresh cigarette from his pack, Obi-Wan passes one to Anakin without having to be asked. “I’ll see you in class, then,” he grunts, pocketing his lighter once again.

Skywalker says nothing, but Obi-Wan hadn’t expected him to. He never says anything afterwards—just bums a cigarette and lets Obi-Wan leave first. There’s nothing to say; they both know they’ll be back to reenact this scene in a week’s time, just like they did the week before, and the week before that, and every week since they first locked eyes across the bar.


	2. Prompt: Love Letters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: T  
> Prompt: I gave you the most heartfelt love letter, but you gave it back to me with spelling and punctuation corrections!?  
> Additional Tags: Modern College AU, Teacher/Student Relationship

Anakin is halfway through his semester of Professor Obi-Wan Kenobi’s composition class when he turns in the first letter. It’s a long thing, heartfelt if hastily written, tucked between the pages of his latest essay. He drops the packet on the designated spot on Kenobi’s desk, and flashes the man a smile. It’s not great, considering the nausea roiling in his gut, but it’s the best he can do. Before the professor has a chance to offer one of his own, Anakin turns tail and flees back to his desk.

This was, he thinks as he sits, a terrible idea. Unfortunately, it is far too late to backtrack, and Anakin can only watch helplessly as Kenobi straightens the stack of his and his peers’ essays before tucking the neat pile into his briefcase and dismissing them all with a wave of his hand. He is, perhaps, a bit more enthusiastic in his exit from the room than he normally is, though he likes to think he has an excuse this time.

It’s not fair, really; Anakin can think of no other reason than the machinations of a cruel and powerful god as the reason the universe had dropped such a perfect specimen as Professor Obi-Wan Kenobi practically into his lap. Fair skinned, with grey-blue eyes and auburn hair that’s just beginning to grey around the temples, Kenobi may as well have stepped out of one of teenaged Anakin’s wet dreams. Though shorter than Anakin and always swallowed up by oversized sweaters he insists on wearing to class, there is a grace in the way he moves that suggest power hidden beneath all that fabric. Anakin would like nothing more than to divest him of those layers and discover just what lay beneath; to feel the scratch of the man’s well-groomed beard against the soft skin of his lips and hear that infuriatingly crisp voice crack with pleasure; to raise dark bruises on pale skin that the world may know his claim.

Hence the letter. He can’t help but feel a bit like his nine year-old self, crafting a letter in still-shaky scrawl to the eleven year-old girl who lived down the street to proclaim his undying love, but nineteen year-old Anakin hadn’t really seen a better option. It’s not like he could meet Obi-Wan in his office and confess his attraction. The worst that can happen is that Kenobi says no; Anakin trusts he won’t turn him in to the school board for any unwanted advances. At least he’d have closure on the matter and would be able to move on from this ridiculous crush, just as he’d done when Padme Amidala had promptly but kindly informed his nine year-old that she currently had a crush on a girl in her class and therefore could not be his girlfriend.

The class periods following the submission of his letter are perhaps the most nerve-wracking of his life, made all the worse by the fact that Kenobi doesn’t even acknowledge the fact that Anakin has laid out his heart on a silver platter and thrown a wrench in the cordial student-teacher relationship they’d cultivated over the first half of the semester. In fact, Kenobi continues along as though nothing has happened—as though he never received the letter at all. Perhaps it fell out from between the pages somewhere between the library, where Anakin had printed his essay, and the classroom, to be swept away as garbage by the college’s apathetic janitorial staff. He can’t seem to decide whether this thought is a relief or not.

In fact, it is a full week later that Anakin finally gets his answer. Kenobi passes back the essays, lingering perhaps a bit too long by Anakin when he drops his onto his desk, and Anakin flips through the pages only to spot something tucked between them: his letter. It’s not, however, as he submitted it. Instead, it is covered in the signature green of Kenobi’s grading pen. Everything from grammatical to spelling errors have been marked as meticulously as the essay Anakin submitted the letter with. He scowls at it, but it continues to not make any sort of sense. He flips it over, but there is nothing written on the back; no polite rejection or any kind of acknowledgement of the letter’s contents. Just the corrections.

Anakin catches Kenobi’s eyes when the man dismisses them, but his expression is unreadable.

The second letter is submitted with his next assignment, Kenobi’s corrections taken into account. He’s not entirely sure it’s what Obi-Wan wants, but it hadn’t been a straightforward _no_ , so he’s going to go for it. In fact, as he hands the essay to Kenobi, the man thumbs through the pages as though _looking_ for Anakin’s response before sticking it on the pile with all the rest. He smirks at Anakin as he does so, and the youth’s mouth abruptly goes dry.

Again the letter is returned to him with his assignment, though there is significantly less green on it than the first attempt. Kenobi’s hand settles on his shoulder very briefly as he passes Anakin’s desk, and the heat that radiates from his palm seems to linger on Anakin’s skin long after he’s left the class and continued on with his day.

It becomes something of a game. He’d submit a letter, Obi-Wan would grade it and give it back. Each time he’d make less and less mistakes, and would spend his free time pouring over their contents in attempt to decipher just what he’d done wrong and how it could be improved. The remainder of the semester flies by, and before he knows it he’s handing in his final essay—his final letter with it. The thought leaves a pit in his stomach.

When grades are finally passed back, he flips desperately through the pages only to find the letter absent. The pit in his stomach seems to grow, swallowing up all of his insides as a sense of betrayal falls over him. Kenobi, for his part, acts as though nothing is wrong; as though he has not violated the arrangement they’d come to over the course of the semester. If Anakin is melancholy and unresponsive for the remainder of their final class period, he likes to think he has a perfectly valid reason.

“Mr. Skywalker,” Kenobi calls when the class is dismissed for the last time, catching Anakin just before he slips out the door, “I’d like to see you in my office, please.”

Anakin nods morosely, waiting for the man to pack up his things before following him through the crowded halls. He’s never actually been to Obi-Wan’s office, despite everything. It had seemed too private—to isolated for Anakin to trust himself to not make any rash decisions. Not like it matters now.

The door closing and locking behind them is vaguely ominous, cutting off the sound of students talking as they make their way to their next class; the glass in the window is frosted, making it impossible to see what is going on outside the office—or within. Anakin does not move from the doorway until Kenobi steps around him, settling in his own chair and gesturing to one on the opposite side of the desk. “Please, Anakin, sit.”

He does, shuffling deliberately slow across the room and dropping unceremoniously down into it. It might have been comfortable in other circumstances, but Anakin is too on edge to really take notice. Kenobi does not comment on the matter, instead opening one of the desk drawers and rifling through it until he finds what he’s looking for: Anakin’s last letter.

“Congratulations, Anakin,” he announces as he pulls a pair of glasses from his breast pocket with his free hand. Anakin’s only seen him wear them a few times. “You’ve finally written me a flawless letter; it seems like you’ve learned something from my class after all.”

“Have I?” Anakin mutters, though it’s mostly to himself.

Obi-Wan answers the question nonetheless, setting the paper down to gesture with his hands. “Of course! Over the course of the semester, your grades drastically improved. The improvements you began to make here,” he lays a hand on the letter, “translated directly to improvements in your assignments for class. You spotted and corrected mistakes more easily in you editing, and your overall skill level improved. I’m very proud of you, Anakin,”

“Is that all this was to you?” Anakin spits, temper finally getting the better of him. He snatches the letter from Kenobi’s desk and waves it at the man like a prosecutor presenting evidence to a guilty party. “A fucking academic exercise?”

The outburst earns him a slow blink from Kenobi, who is silent for a moment before his lips curl into a small smirk. “Of course not, Anakin,” he purrs, leaning forward and plucking the letter from the boy’s grip and smoothing the now wrinkled paper on the surface of his desk. “I want you to be mine just as much as you desire to be; I simply had to ensure you actually took something from my class before we got distracted by… other things.”

Anakin has to stifle a whimper when Obi-Wan pushes his chair back from the desk, gesturing for the younger man to approach with a beckoning motion of his fingers. He doesn’t have to be told twice, scrambling out of his own seat and around to the other side; a small part of him can’t believe this is actually happening.

 Kenobi guides him up onto his lap despite the soft protest of the chair, Anakin’s knees bracketing the man’s hips. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted you,” he murmurs, holding gently to Anakin’s hips as he situates himself. “You have no idea how hard it was to not just give you what you asked for in your letters.”

Anakin thinks he has some idea, having dealt with his own desire over the course of the semester, but he does not say so; they’ve done enough talking, in his opinion. Instead he leans down, catching the man’s lips with his own with the urgency of a starving man. Kenobi doesn’t seem inclined to reprimand him for ending the conversation early, returning Anakin’s affections with the same passion. It’s easy to lose himself in the sensations, everything he wanted and so, so much more. Chapped lips and a rough beard and the aftertaste of tea that Obi-Wan drinks in class. He wants more—wants everything the man has to offer.

When they finally break away to draw breath, Kenobi’s grin has morphed into something predatory. “Would you like to go home with me, Anakin Skywalker?” he asks, and Anakin is nodding frantically before he’s even finished the question.

“Yes,” he gasps. “Yes, yes, please.”

The moment is abruptly ruined by a knock at the door and a jiggling of the handle, a very confused call of, “Mr. Kenobi? Are you in there?” sounding through the glass.

Obi-Wan sighs, gently pushing Anakin off him and attempting to straighten his clothing, which has been irreparably wrinkled by the younger man’s clinging. “I suppose that’s our que to return to the real world.”

“I guess,” Anakin replies, smoothing down his own tee shirt. He doesn’t look nearly as rumpled as Kenobi, only because he always looks a bit of a mess.

“I will see you later then, darling; I do believe you have another class in a bit. Meet me here afterwards?”

Anakin nods his assent, and Obi-Wan stands to give him one final, chaste peck before striding over to the door and unlocking it to usher Anakin out. “Until then, Mr. Skywalker.”


	3. Prompt: Chocolate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: G  
> Prompt: You've got some chocolate on the side of your lip, but I'm not sure I wanna tell you because you look so cute.  
> Additional Tags: Padme Amidala/Anakin Skywalker (mentioned), established relationship, polyamory, fluff

There’s a feeling that accompanies returning to Coruscant after weeks or even months off-planet. As much as Anakin adores being out among the stars, Coruscant has something to offer that the vastness of space does not: his family. Padme, his angel and devoted wife; Ahsoka, his faithful padawan; Obi-Wan, the only man to have ever earned the respected title of Master in Anakin’s eyes. When you are like Anakin, with a habit of losing your head in the clouds, it’s sometimes nice to have something to aide in keeping your feet on the ground.

He can’t help the grin on his face when he leaps out of his fighter, crossing the Jedi Temple’s hanger in long, bounding strides. His Master and padawan wait on the other end of the bay, Obi-Wan far more patiently than Ahsoka. She is all but vibrating in place with the excitement of reunion, the separation of this latest assignment the longest of their partnership. She’d been held up by an injury when Anakin was deployed, left in Obi-Wan’s care until her assigned Master returned. As much as Anakin knows she enjoys Obi-Wan’s company, she is as equally wild at heart as he is; she is undoubtedly ready to get out of the temple and back into the fray.

Ahsoka breaks rank by the time Anakin is halfway across the bay, allowing herself to be swept up into his arms in a far more affectionate hug than the Jedi Order would appreciate. She’s grown in the weeks he’s been gone, he notes, her montrals and lekku growing along with her. He can’t help but think that she might just surpass his own impressive height one day.

“You haven’t caused Obi-Wan too much trouble, I hope?” He asks when he sets her down, throwing a companionable arm over her shoulder and steering her back to the waiting Jedi Councilor.

“No more than you,” she teases, elbowing him in the side and ducking away when he swats at her in retaliation.

She ducks behind Obi-Wan as though to hide from Anakin—an effect that is ruined in that Obi-Wan is even smaller than her Master, and she is swiftly edging on him in height. The aforementioned Councilor cocks a judgmental brow at his former pupil, but the twitch of the man’s lips behind his carefully groomed beard is enough to inform Anakin to his amusement at the pair’s antics. “I’ll have you know that she listens to instructions much better than you,” Obi-Wan informs him, stepping forward to receive his own hug from Anakin. “Maybe I _should_ have trained her myself.”

“Not a chance, Master.”

The trio winds their way through the halls of the temple toward Anakin and Obi-Wan’s shared quarters, discussing’s Anakin latest assignment and what the other two had been up to during his time away. Ahsoka breaks off when they reach the door, having to return to her lessons, leaving the pair alone for the time being.

Anakin draws his Master in for another long hug the minute the door closes behind them, tucking his face into the crook of the man’s neck. He doesn’t like these extended separations any more than the rest of his makeshift family does. Despite understanding the necessity in wartime, there is always a fear curled low in his gut that he’s going to pick up a com or come back to the temple and be informed one of them, any of them, were lost while he was on the other side of the galaxy and unable to protect them. He knows that Obi-Wan feels it too based on the way the man’s fingers tangle in Anakin’s tabards, holding him close.

“I’m glad you’re ok,” Obi-Wan murmurs.

“Had to come back. You and Padme were waiting for me.”

“Damned right,” Obi-Wan chuckles weakly when they finally pull away.

“I actually brought something for you.”

Digging around in the pocket of his cloak, Anakin finally locates and fishes out the small bag of sweets he secured during his time away. It’s not much, but it’s not like the Jedi receive especially generous stipends with which to spoil their illicit lovers and Anakin happens to know that Obi-Wan is quite fond of this particular kind of chocolate. It’d been dumb luck that he’d stumbled upon the little stand selling them in a local market, an older twi’lek woman trading Anakin’s meager handful of credits for the sweets. Obi-Wan’s carefully rationed supply had run out weeks ago and Council duties had kept him locked up in the temple, unable to seek out more himself.

Obi-Wan takes them reverently, immediately dumping one from the bag and into his palm. “Thank you, Anakin.”

Watching Obi-Wan bite into the chocolate is worth the stress of getting the delicate candies through the chaos of war in one piece. His eyes flutter shut, a low hum in his throat, as though the mildly spiced chocolate is a religious experience rather than a simple sweet. It’s a religious experience for Anakin, that’s for sure.

There’s a smear of chocolate left on Obi-Wan’s lip when he’s done, the cursory lick of his lips not enough to wipe the stubborn spot away. Anakin briefly considers pointing it out, then considers wiping it away with his thumb, finally settling own on a third option.

Catching Obi-Wan’s face between his hands, he leans in, swiping his tongue across Obi-Wan’s lips and tasting the chocolate off the delicate flesh. “Mmm…” Anakin hums. “Delicious.”

Obi-Wan sputters at his boldness, his cheeks and the tips of his ears a brilliant red when Anakin finally lets him go and pulls away. “I-I’m quite certain you have a briefing to attend.”

“That I do.” The younger Knight smirks, darting in to plant another kiss on his Master’s lips and earning another unhappy squawk. “See you for dinner at Padme’s after?”

“I do believe your wife would appreciate having you to herself for a bit. Tomorrow?”

“Alright,” Anakin cedes. With a final chaste kiss, he darts out the door and off to his briefing.

 


	4. Prompt: Roommates AU OT3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: T  
> Prompt: Roommates AU  
> Additional Tags: ObiAniDala, getting together

The thing is, Obi-Wan doesn’t _hate_ his roommates.

Padme Amidala is soft in features but strong in spirit. A political science student at the top of her class, she’s as clever as she is beautiful—and stars, is she beautiful. Seated on the rug in their small living room, leaned back against the couch, her books and her notes scattered around her, she manages to make the baggy sweatpants and oversized tee shirt she wears work far better than they rightfully should. She flips through the pages of a heavy textbook, highlighting important text, her brows furrowed and lips pouting in concentration as she reads.

Nearly as bad is her partner, Anakin Skywalker, who’d moved in with them only a few months ago. He is practically Padme’s antithesis, all hard planes and sharp lines, a contrast to his gentle personality. An engineering student, Skywalker can usually be found wherever his partner is when he’s not in class or at work. Currently, he is lying with his head in Padme’s lap, his own studies forgotten in favor of allowing the warm, afternoon light to lull him into a catnap. Obi-Wan knows he has nightmares, has woken in the night to hear Padme comforting him, so Anakin dozing off in these quiet peaceful moments is hardly an uncommon occurrence.

No, Obi-Wan doesn’t hate his roommates, which is precisely why he finds himself seated on the couch, flipping through the newspaper’s listings of apartments for rent with the desperation of a man condemned.

If asked, Obi-Wan wouldn’t be able to pinpoint when exactly he fell in love with Padme Amidala and Anakin Skywalker. There was no single moment—no eruption of fireworks where everything seemed to just fall into place. Instead, it just grew, slow enough that he didn’t notice until it was far too late to stop it. It grew in the quiet moments like these: over dinner, enjoying a meal Anakin made when his roommates got lost in their studies and forgot to eat; in the brush of fingers when papers or pens or notes are passed; when they’re crammed together on their too-small couch, watching a crappy movie and decompressing after a particularly stressful week.

Obi-Wan knows he needs out of this apartment, out of their lives, or one day he’s going to give in to the urge to rub at the tense lines of Padme’s shoulders until they unknot or join them in their bedroom and take Skywalker in his arms when he wakes up screaming. He wants to know what Padme’s hair feels like tangled in his fingers; he wants to know what secrets of Anakin’s past haunt his dreams.

“I wish you’d stop that,” Padme sighs, drawing Obi-Wan from his frantic search for an emergency exit.

He offers her an attempt at an innocent smile he knows is pitifully transparent. “Stop what?”

“Looking for another place.” Denial dies on his tongue when she fixes him with a stern look; you can’t lie to a woman as perceptive as Padme. “You know you’re welcome here with us.”

“I know,” he murmurs, avoiding her eyes as he says it, keeping his voice pitched low to avoid waking Anakin. They’ve derailed several of these escape attempts in the past, reiterating that they don’t want Obi-Wan to move out. That they enjoy his company. “However, you and Anakin are starting your life together. I feel as though I’m intruding.”

“You’re not,” She says, carefully shifting Anakin until she can slide out from under him. He grumbles faintly about the movement, but doesn’t wake. From there, Padme stands, throwing a leg over Obi-Wan’s lap. “Obi-Wan, I promise you’re not.”

He stiffens as she plucks the paper from his hands, tossing it down on the floor next to Anakin and sending the pages fluttering across the floor. The rational part of Obi-Wan’s mind is screaming for him to stop this before it starts. This can’t happen; he would never get between Padme and Anakin, least of all when Anakin is snuffling in his sleep on the floor at their feet. “Padme, I can’t—we can’t—”

“We can,” she murmurs “I promise we can.” Padme cups his face in her hands, silencing his protests when she closes the distance between.

Obi-Wan’s hands clench in Padme’s shirt where they’d come up to balance her when she’d climbed into his lap. She’s soft under his hand, but the pressure of her lips on his is nothing like he ever imagined. Padme is rough, demanding; she knows what she wants from him and is unafraid to take it. It has Obi-Wan following her lead before he can give any real thought to his actions, allowing her to lick into his mouth without resistance. Pushing against his shoulders, she forces him as far back against the couch as he’ll go, adjusting her weight to sit more fully in his lap and drawing a ragged gasp from his throat when she grinds down against him.

The cushions to Obi-Wan’s side shift with added weight, and he breaks away from Padme to glance at its source. All of the hazy pleasure he’d experienced at Padme’s ministrations drains abruptly from his system when he meets Anakin’s bleary, blue eyes. The other man has propped an elbow on the edge of the couch, leaning his chin on his hand and staring up at the pair though his lashes.

“You cheated,” he grumbles, voice still sleep-rough, shooting his girlfriend an accusing look.

Padme, for her part, doesn’t appear particularly bothered by his attitude, nor that her partner just caught her with her tongue halfway down their roommate’s throat. In fact, she appears quite pleased with herself when she slides off Obi-Wan’s lap and leans over to press a kiss to the top of Anakin’s head. “I don’t recall breaking any rules in this competition, Ani.”

“I was asleep!”

“All’s fair, dear.” Padme teases.

Their bickering is interrupted by Obi-Wan, who is horribly confused as to what is going on here. Anakin just caught him making out with his girlfriend on their couch, and for some reason neither party seems particularly concerned about that fact. “Wait a moment! What competition?” he demands.

“The ‘Who Can Seduce Obi-Wan First’ competition, obviously,” Anakin drawls, causing Obi-Wan to choke on his next breath.

“I-I’m sorry!?”

Padme’s melodic laugh cuts through his stammering. “I told you it was fine, Obi-Wan,” she says. “When we figured out how you felt about us, Ani and I decided to have a friendly competition to see who could get you to slip first. He owes me a dinner at Dex’s now.”

“Except that Padme cheated,” Anakin again accuses.

“I had to!” She argues. “Obi-Wan was getting serious about moving out again, and I couldn’t risk it.”

Obi-Wan blinks, and blinks again, still trying to process just what is going on. From what he’s been told, it sounds like Anakin and Padme would like him to stay, and that there may be the possibility of more on the table. But that can’t be right, can it? “So… you don’t want me to move out?” He asks, hesitant to broach the second subject.

“No, Obi-Wan, we don’t,” Padme assures.

“And we want you to be our partner!” Anakin spits out, slapping his hand over his mouth afterwards.

Padme shoots him a sharp look. “We’d like you to be our partner _if_ that’s something you’re open to. If not, we’d still like to have you around. Even if it’s just as our good friend.”

Words fail Obi-Wan as he stares at the pair, gaze flickering disbelievingly between them. He’s waiting for some sign of a joke, but there’s nothing but earnestness in their expressions. Reaching out, almost hesitantly, he cups Anakin’s cheek and drags his thumb across the other man’s cheekbone. “If you’re serious, I would like that very much.”

Anakin tilts his head, pressing a quick kiss to Obi-Wan’s palm before leaping to his feet with an excited shout of, “Yes! Victory dinner at Dex’s!”

“Ani…” Padme chides, but there’s an equally large grin on her face as their partner—and isn’t that something, _their_ partner—drags them both off the couch and herds them to the door. Yes, Obi-Wan thinks he could get quite used to this.


	5. Prompt: Stairs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might become its own thing when I don't have so many other fics on my plate, but i'll throw it up here for now.
> 
> Rating: T  
> Prompt: Every time we climb the stairs, something changes  
> Additional Tags: ObiAniDala (Past), Established Relationship, Post-Mustafar AU, Vaderkin

Obi-Wan can't help the way he falters at the bottom of the loading ramp. The yawning belly of the Naboo starskiff is waiting, welcoming, if only he can find the courage to take that next step. To climb the ramp and change his life irreparably for what feels like the hundredth time over the last few days. When he snuck aboard in attempt to reach Anakin on Mustafar; when he carried Padme's limp form away from the hellish planet; now, as every muscle and bone in his body aches and the Force whispers with urgency that he must be gone. He is no longer the man that came before these moments, but he finds himself clinging to that once-self anyways.

"Obi-Wan," A croaking voice calls, and he turns away from the ramp to watch Yoda's small form hobble across the hanger bay. The bundles on his back wriggle and whine in protest their current conditions, accustomed as they are to the regulated temperatures of Polis Massa's nursery and not the space-cold bite of the hanger. "Going, where are you?"

"You know where I'm going, Master Yoda," he says, and doesn't meet the Master's eyes. There is shame curled around his chest, constricting his ribcage, at war with the ache of separation in his heart. He has not felt this way since his Padawan years, on Melina/Daan, when he laid his lightsaber in the palm of his Master's hand and stepped away from an opportunity he worked so hard to earn. He'd been able to turn back from that decision; there will be no return from this one.

A rounded piece of japor, carved with the symbols of Tatooine's peoples, seems to burn against the skin of his chest. Another pendant, squared and equally beautiful, lays against Padme Amidala's chilled skin in a casket in the morgue. A reminder; a promise.

"The man you love, he is no longer." Yoda declares, ears drooping. "A foolish decision, this is."

"I don't care." Obi-Wan replies, sounding far surer than he feels. He can't remember the last time he felt sure of anything.

Their conversation is momentarily paused when Threepio totters down the ramp of the skiff, his arms waving the awkward manner he has. “Master Kenobi, Artoo says the ship is ready to go whenever you—oh.” He pauses, turning his entire upper torso as he looks between Yoda and Obi-Wan. He is assuredly Anakin’s most eccentric creation. “I’m sorry. Am I interrupting?”

“No, Threepio. Actually, your timing is excellent. Come here please.” The droid waddles over to Obi-Wan, waiting expectantly for his command. Carefully, ever carefully, Obi-Wan slips the pack from his back, looping it around the droid’s neck and shoulders, untrusting of his rather clumsy hands. Threepio immediately begins to protest, but Kenobi is quick to cut him off. “Threepio, please. Take the twins into the ship, and tell Artoo that should I not return—should anyone try to board this ship but me—he’s to take off immediately. He has the coordinates.”

“Master Kenobi, I couldn’t possibly—” the droid babbles.

“ _Go_ , Threepio.” Obi-Wan orders, brokering no argument, and the droid goes.

Yoda sighs, watching the golden droid patter back up the ramp, agonizingly careful of the sling Obi-Wan placed around him and its precious cargo. He allows his gimer stick to fall to the ground, reaching instead for the lightsaber at his hip. "Allow you to take the children, I cannot."

Obi-Wan snags his own weapon from his belt. He ignites the blade—always the first to do so, it seems. He doesn't want to fight, but he will if he’s pushed. Yoda is a strong opponent, but Kenobi knows himself to have the upper hand. After all, he is the only one here to have ever defeated a Sith in single combat. "They should be with him."

"The last hope of the galaxy, they are."

"They're just _children_! Infants! What good can come of placing the weight of the galaxy on the shoulders of children? Is that not how we got ourselves into this mess?"

"Blinded, you have become, by fear and love," the little, green Master says with a solemn shake of his balding head. He flicks the ignition switch of his own ‘saber. "Failed you, the Jedi have. Sorry, I am, Obi-Wan."

* * *

 

There is blood on the boarding ramp of the skiff that’s settled in the hanger bay of the once Jedi Temple. It has ceased to be so, since claimed by Sidious for his grand Imperial Palace, and no Jedi would be foolish enough to return to this place without a desire to join their people in the majesty of the Force. Vader would think that this was the case, would interpret this as the final stand of a Jedi who wished to die with their people, if he didn’t recognize this particular ship.

Padme’s ship.

Vader knows that his wife is dead. When he’d reached into the Force over the last few days, the glimmer of light that was her presence was gone. As much as he’d liked to believe his Master lying, that he’s just trying to control Vader through his grief, there is no arguing with the Force. That is, after all, how he got himself into this mess.

He ascends the ramp, Cody to his left and just a step behind. The commander shifts his weapon awkwardly, trying to find a position where he can cover Vader’s non-dominant side and still maneuver. He is accustomed to standing at Obi-Wan’s right, and he’s hardly Rex. It is an uncomfortable situation for them both as they follow the trail of blood up the ramp and into the ship’s belly.

The places where Vader’s new artificial limbs meet flesh ache with movement. There had been quite a commotion from the medical droids watching him when he’d attempted to leave the bay, as he really should not be up and moving just yet. That hadn’t stopped him; it could have been worse. If Obi-Wan hadn’t had hadn’t hesitated, hadn’t reached for him, hadn’t dragged Anakin up the bank and out of the lava’s reach.

No. He’s not going to think about Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan, his husband; Obi-Wan, who turn his back on him; Obi-Wan who—

“Oh Master Anakin, thank goodness you’re here!” Throwing an arm out to still Cody’s rising weapon, Vader watches as Threepio totters into view from the ship’s small crew cabin, where the trail of blood disappears. He’s surprised to see the droid here; he’d thought Obi-Wan would have— “You must come quickly! Master Kenobi seems to have malfunctioned!”

Vader feels his heartrate pick up. When he’d seen the skiff land, he hadn’t let himself hope that perhaps his husband had come back to him. It seems to be the case, if Threepio is telling the truth, and that thought terrifies him more than it offers relief. There is so much blood on the floor. With a sharp wave, he instructs Cody to go find a medic, then follows Threepio into the bunkroom.

“He seemed to be functioning fine at the start of our journey, but then he fell over and I haven’t been able to rouse him.”

Kenobi is laid out on the durasteel floor of the skiff, curled around his stomach, breath coming worryingly shallow. Around him, staining the cream of his robes and the grey floor, is a puddle of blood that sets Vader on edge. He drops to his knees at the man’s side, turning him over onto his back to reveal the source of his injury.

There, stretching from hip to hip, is a gaping cut in the man’s abdomen. Vader has seen enough lightsaber wounds to recognize the cauterized burns to the edge, and the swollen, red flesh around it as infection begins to set in. It’s a miracle Kenobi isn’t dead already; any deeper, and he certainly would have already bled out. “What happened?” He snarls at the droid, who is still babbling on about the journey here. When that doesn’t seem to get his attention, he repeats the question in a louder voice.

“Oh! Dear me! Master Kenobi thought it best to return Luke and Leia to you after Mistress Padme—after she—”

“ _Threepio_ ,” Vader presses.

“Master Yoda stopped Master Kenobi in the hanger. I assume they fought, as he was injured when he returned to the ship!”

Cody returns then, trailing Kix and several other clones in his wake. Vader is shooed away while the medic and the other clones lift Obi-Wan onto a stretcher. Kix runs a scanner over the wounded Jedi, pronouncing him alive, if in critical condition.

“You fought Yoda for me…” Vader breathes as the party pushes Kenobi’s stretcher out of the quarters and off toward the Palace’s medical bay. It’s then that the other part of what Threepio told him connects, and he whirls on the droid once again. “Threepio? Who are Luke and Leia?” He demands.

The golden droid awkwardly waves an arm toward the singular bunk, the entrance to which has been carefully blocked off by a wall of pillows and linens. If not for the bloody handprints staining the fabric, Vader might have been amused by the care taken for such a menial task, as is his husband’s nature.

Peeking over the edge of the makeshift wall, he nearly startles backwards at what he finds: two infants, curled up together in the small nest. They’ve somehow managed to sleep through the earlier commotion, but seem to be slowly waking under his stare. The one on the left is the first to open their eyes, releasing a soft burble when they catch sight of Vader.

The Sith reaches down, taking gentle hold of the infant’s tiny hand, his mechanical limbs suddenly seeming too large and unwieldy. There is a band around the child’s wrist, and he adjusts the slip of flimsi until he read the print upon it.

_Skywalker, Leia._

Vader feel his heart leap into his throat, barely daring to read the print on the other child’s wrist tag.

 _Skywalker, Luke_.

These are his children.

For a moment, there is perfect stillness in the small skiff. The children, both of their eyes open now, stare up at him as he gapes down at them. The children; his children. His children, who Obi-Wan sought to return to him even if it cost him his life.

His Master told him the child died with his wife.

Rage boils up in Vader’s chest as he carefully scoops the children from their place on the cot, retrieving the sling that’s still tied around Threepio’s form and settling the twins inside it. He ties the bundle around himself and sweeps from the ship; he needs to have words with his Master. First, though, he has a duty to his children.

* * *

 

Obi-Wan wakes slowly, aware first of the pulsing ache in his abdomen, then the light that stings at his eyes. He moans, low and pained, and a hand settles gently on his chest.

“Try not to move,” a familiar voice says, and Obi-Wan forces his eyes open. Anakin—Vader—hover above him, concern evident on his face as he checks Obi-Wan over. “You were in the bacta tank for a few days, but the med droids say you still need rest.

Scrutinizing the man above him, Obi-Wan comes to the conclusion that there is something wrong. Vader’s right eye is hidden behind a patch. He didn’t do that, and the scar Ventress left behind had miraculously missed the eye itself. “W’happened?” He slurs, bringing an unsteady hand up to brush against the patch. The place where the scar was before seems to have been opened again, the wound far worse this time.

Vader catches the hand, pulling it down to his lips and laying a series of soft kisses to his knuckles. “I had a discussion with my Master on the matter of his deceit. He told me you betrayed me—that the twins died with Padme.”

“They didn’t—we didn’t.”

“I know,” Vader replies, smiling fondly down at him. “Which is why my Master is dead.”

For a moment, Obi-Wan stares up at him, uncomprehending, then a slow smile stretches over his face. He frees his hand from his husband’s grasp, cupping his face. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

Vader turns his face into Obi-Wan’s palm, pressing another kiss into the skin. “Anything for you, my love. And for our children.”

“How are they?”

“Getting stronger every day,” Vader purrs. “Would you like to see them?”

Obi-Wan nods, and the man vanishes from the room. He’s only gone a moment, returning with the twins in his arms and Artoo trailing behind him. The droid is engaging him in an argument that Obi-Wan cannot understand, but Vader releases a put-upon sigh that means it’s something they’ve fought over before.

“No, Artoo, you can’t hold them.” The Sith announces, settling the twins on the blankets at Obi-Wan’s side. The little droid rolls to the edge of the bed, optic sensors fixed on the children, and releases a series of unhappy noises. “I know Threepio got to hold them; Theepio has arms. You, my little friend, do not.”

The droid lets out an offended _blat_ while Vader clambers onto the bed after the children. With his aid, Obi-Wan is able to roll over onto his side, his gaze alternating between the twins and his husband.

Even when falling Vader never wanted power; he doesn’t have the taste for politics required to successfully lead an empire. Now, without Sidous’ influence and with a family to raise, there is a chance that he may relinquish the power he’s inherited in the wake of his Master’s death. The rebellion Bail discussed in hushed tones at Polis Massa may not be necessary after all.

Obi-Wan sighs, watching the blue that bleeds into the gold of Vader’s eyes, and for the first time feels like he made the right decision when he dragged himself up the skiff’s ramp.


	6. Prompt: Festival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Meeting at a festival AU  
> Additional Tags: Musician Obi-Wan, Fanboy Anakin, Mentions of recreational drug use

Music thrums in Anakin's ears, the soft tones of the melody contrasting with the thundering of the bass against his ribcage. There's something about concerts that he's always enjoyed, like the music chases away the chaotic thoughts that lurk inside his mind. The push and pull of the crowd, the smell of smoke in the air, the tingle of something recreational in his veins; there's nothing quite like the festivals that roll through Tatooine a few times a year. With little else to attract tourists, the vast, desert flats on the outskirts of town serve as the town’s main attraction. Every few months the groupies set up base; a portable city of tents and RVs that goes as fast as it arrived the moment that last note is played.

Anakin's going to get out of here one day, but for now he's content to lose himself in the music. Slipping through the crowd, he finds himself drawn to the stage and the man upon it like a magnet pulled to its polar opposite. A great many musicians have come and gone from these plains, twenty or thirty or more at a time, hoping to leave their footprints in the sands of the endless desert flats. Some of them have stayed, taken up residence in the halls of Anakin's mind like ghosts, but none of them have rooted themselves quite so firmly as this man.

Obi-Wan Kenobi.

Anakin hasn't missed one of his performances in Tatooine since he was seventeen years old. Years of staying up late and skipping school the next day, years of calling out to work, years of spending every dime he's saved on the exorbitantly priced tickets of shows Kenobi plays in.

Ginger hair in disarray and set aflame by the glow of the lights, fringe falling down into his eyes. Tattoos that wind down his forearms—a dozen symbols with a dozen meaning that Anakin doesn't know but wants to. An old guitar, worn with age and use, slung over his bared chest as he croons into the microphone. Sweat shimmers on his skin, in the hollow of his throat and down the planes of his chest. Kenobi is ethereal; he is everything Anakin wants to have and to be.

He leans against the guard rails separating the crowd from the makeshift stage, pressing himself to the cool metal to ground against the dizzying heat of close bodies on a warm night. He lives for this: for Kenobi's music in his ears and smoke in his lungs, sweat sticking his tee shirt to his skin. If Anakin could choose a way to live, it would be like this; if Anakin could choose a way to die, it would be like this.

He doesn't know when his eyes slipped close, just reveling in the atmosphere, but they flutter open at the touch of someone's hand upon his cheek. The bodies around him are jostling for closeness, attention, screaming loud in his ears and droning out the melody, but it's all background noise to Anakin. When he opens his eyes, there is only Kenobi. Only the grey-blue of his eyes and ghost of his breath and the soft smile Anakin knows belongs to him alone. The rail separates them, bouncers hovering nearby, but the place where the man’s hand brushed over his skin still burns like wildfire even after he’s retaken the stage. Anakin hadn't realized it was possible to fall in love with a man you've never met, but his heart is in his throat and his cheeks burn and he knows—he _knows_ —he would trade everything for this.

"Come away with me," Kenobi will pant in the dark of the tour bus after the show, the rest of the band out for drinks and their clothes scattered across the floor. In his mind’s eye, Anakin can see their life play out: clinging fast to the high of fame as they travel the world, until the moment their star falls and they’re consumed by the flames.

What can he say but yes?


	7. Prompt: Practical Magic OT3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "I mean, it was only a small eldritch being, so it wasn't that bad."  
> Pairing: ObiAniDala  
> Rating: G  
> Additional Tags: Alternative Universe - Fantasy, Established Relationship, Polyamory, Super Hero Obi-Wan, Super Villain Anakin, Damsel in Distress (?) Padme

Everyone has a little magic. Sometimes it’s not much: a smudge here, a sprinkle there. Most of it’s practical, easy to control. Maybe you never lose your pens, or have foresight that always guides you to the roads with the least traffic so you never get to work late. Maybe you can understand languages you’ve never learned, or always know when you’ve run out of milk. For the average, everyday person, magic is in the little things

For every few sprinkles and smudges, however, there’s a place in the world where whoever’s divvying out the power tipped the container a little too far, creating a being with more magic than they know what to do with. With great power comes great responsibility, or so the saying goes, though not everyone seems to have gotten the memo. Sometimes that power gets used for more nefarious purposes, be they bank robberies, physical attacks, petty revenge.

Or, perhaps, abducting the beautiful mayor of Naboo for the third time this week.

“Anakin,” The Negotiator—one of the city’s most prominent heroes—calls as he slips into the villain’s hideout, neatly side-stepping an array meant to trap him that his nemesis had painted on the floor weeks ago and never gotten around to replacing. “Where are you?”

“We’re upstairs!” A feminine voice calls, much less terrified than should be expected from the victim of a sudden and theoretically unexpected kidnapping.

Darth Vader—citizen identity Anakin Skywalker Amidala, mild-mannered freelance mechanic—is one of Naboo’s most notorious villains. Tall, lean, and as powerful as he is handsome. Being the only hero who can even come close to matching Vader in magical power, it almost always falls to the Negotiator to put an end to whatever scheme he’s concocted and collect Mayor Amidala from wherever it is he’s taken her. That usually ends up being here, which is the reason the Negotiator knows that the stairs to the second floor are just down the dimly-lit entrance hall and to the left, beside a closet dedicated to the almost absurd number of meticulously crafted uniforms and capes that Vader owns. He has been sworn to secrecy that the villain does most of his own tailoring, a skill which his mother taught him in his youth.

Upstairs, he finds Padme Amidala seated at the man’s desk, leaning over its surface and chewing on the end of her pen. Whatever it is she’s working on must be giving her trouble. On the other side of the room, Vader is hovering over a work bench, playing with the pieces of some new mechanical menace that the Negotiator knows he’ll regret letting him finish at a later date. The man’s creations might not be so bad if it weren’t for the twist of magic he always imbibes them with: making the wiring in an army of mechanical birds immune to effects of electricity or building a flame-throwing device that doesn’t burn hot, making it impossible to know that he’s set your suit alight until the fire has already eaten through half your uniform.

The Negotiator strips off his gloves and his identity-concealing mask as he pads across the room, stuffing them into a pocket of his utility belt. Padme offers him a distracted wave; he waves back before stepping up behind Vader, wrapping his arms around the younger man’s waist and resting his chin on his shoulder. “Anakin,” he says, “we’ve discussed this.”

“Things were busier than usual at town hall,” Vader replies, not looking up from his work. “She kept texting me about it, and you know that with re-election coming up, she needs to be on top of her game. I just wanted to give her somewhere quiet to work.”

“Yes, but Padme isn’t the only one with a job, dear one. I had to let my students go early _again_ because my pager went off. How are they supposed to learn if I keep having to ‘rescue’ your wife from the infamous Darth Vader? _Especially_ when it involves spending the better part of an hour banishing whatever hell-beast you set upon the town back to its own dimension?”

Anakin shrugs. “I mean, it was only a small eldritch being, so it wasn’t that bad. Besides, it took me almost two hours just to summon it, so really, it seems like you got the better end of that deal.”

The Negotiator sighs, pressing a kiss to his partner-slash-nemesis’ cheek before letting go to deal with the city’s missing mayor. He’s leaned over the last few years that it often isn’t worth the effort to argue with Vader, especially on the matter of crime. He’s a villain, unapologetically. “Padme, darling, I’m afraid I must return you to your office. I have another class in half an hour.”

“Let me just wrap this up,” she says, beginning to gather up her papers.

“And I’ll tell city council to send you the bill for the property damage that beast did,” the Negotiator adds, directed toward Anakin.

“What!? Obi-Wan, no!” The younger yelps.

“You know the rules, Vader; the villain covers the damages.”

The younger man _harrumphs_ unhappily, but it’s mostly for show. They all know that Anakin makes enough money in hi chosen profession of building and repairing very expensive things for very wealthy clientele that he’s unlikely to even feel the loss. With the addition of Obi-Wan and Padme’s paychecks, both the mundane and the stipend granted for hero work, it’s not as though they’re want for cash. Such is the reason Vader is one of the city’s boldest villains.

“Don’t forget Luke and Leia’s dance recital at six,” Padme reminds Anakin when she moves to drop her own kiss on his cheek.

“I won’t,” he replies, followed by a shout of, “Love you!” that follows them down the stairs. Both call back to him, and Obi-Wan leads Padme out the door. Another win for the Negotiator.


	8. Prompt: Confession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: T  
> Prompt: "I just told you I liked you but now I’m shy and say “never mind, forget it” and why are you looking at me like that?"  
> Additional Tags: Canon Divergence, Post-Deception Ark, (Supposedly) Unrequited Love, Getting Together

They're arguing again; it's not much of a surprise anymore. It seems to be all they do now, neither prepared to let the matter go. The same argument, the same harsh words, thrown back and forth across the common area of their joint apartment. Some days, Anakin doesn't think he can take it anymore. He storms into his bedroom, intent on finally getting his own quarters—getting away from Obi-Wan—and drags his belongings from drawers and cabinets. Everything is stuffed into a pack that's always emptied again later. Sometimes he manages to get as far as the door before Obi-Wan stops him, grabbing his bag by its straps and dragging them both bodily back into the center of the room so they can restart the argument all over again. One time, he had even made it halfway down the hall before Obi-Wan caught up, begging him to come back and talk about this and not make any stupid decisions.

Stupid decisions, Anakin had snarled at him, Kenobi already had covered.

Stupid decisions like faking his own death and making Anakin watch. Forcing him to carry his lifeless body back to the Temple. Sentencing him to days curled in the man's bed, wrought with overwhelming grief, unable to muster the energy to do anything but lay there swaddled in blankets that smelled like his Master and wait for the scent to inevitably fade. Ahsoka had joined him once in his silent vigil, the tears she couldn't shed before the rest of their people spilling out in harsh sobs as she clung to him, lonely, confused, and grieving. He hadn't eaten, hadn't slept, hadn't spoken to anyone until the news that Hardeen had escaped reached the Temple.

After grief came the rage—anger that propelled him and his student across the galaxy against the Council's orders only to find that the man they hunted and the Master they'd lost were one in the same. Now Obi-Wan is back, wearing his own face as he stands in the doorway of Anakin’s bedroom and watches him pack his things once again, but the anger still hasn't subsided. Betrayal burns hot in his gut, and no amount of meditation will release it to the Force. How could he do this to his friends? To Anakin? "What do you want me to say, Anakin? I don’t know why you’re still upset," Obi-Wan snarls. “What I did was for the good of the Order—for the good of the Republic itself. What more do you want from me!?”

“Stars, how can you be so _stupid_ sometimes?” Anakin fires back over his shoulder, stuffing a handful of spare tools into his bag. “Why do I bother staying here?”

"If you don’t want to be here, then go!"

For all their arguments, all the anger, Obi-Wan has never told Anakin to leave. He’s always been willing to drag Anakin back whenever he takes it a step too far—sometimes quite physically. This sudden deviation from the norm stills Anakin’s hands and wounds in a way he hadn’t expected.

Turning, he faces Obi-Wan. Kenobi isn’t looking at him, staring down and away to the point that Anakin can’t get a clear read on his expression due to the fringe of hair that falls down over his face. He’s tense, though, clearly awaiting some response. At his sides, his hands shake in an uncharacteristic display of emotion.

“Do you want me to go?” Anakin asks, quiet and unsure. He doesn’t want the answer.

Obi-Wan’s response is just as soft, just as lost. “No, but I don’t know how to make you stay.”

Anakin swallows, and doesn’t stop to consider his next words before he says them. He’s still angry with Obi-Wan, still hurt in a way he can’t communicate, and he doesn’t know how else to make the man understand why. “I love you,” he confesses, despite the way his cheeks flush and his heart flutters in his chest. “I love you, Obi-Wan, and when I thought you were dead—when I thought I’d never see you again—I didn’t know how I was going to keep going.

“I didn’t know how to live without you, and then it turned out that you were alive and ok and it hurt _._ You _used me._ You may not have known just how much I cared for you, but you knew that I cared and you used it without thought to what those feelings would do to me. Can you really not understand why I’m angry with you?”

“The Code forbids attachment, Anakin,” Obi-Wan murmurs, still refusing to look at him, and Anakin feels hot tears sting at the corners of his eyes. He knew the rejection was coming, knew Obi-Wan would never let go of his dedication to the Code, but it doesn’t stop him from feeling like he’s been gutted anew.

“Never mind,” he growls, grabbing his pack and slinging it over his shoulder. While he wasn’t finished packing, he doesn’t think he can stay here a moment longer. Those things can be collected later he’s got his own apartment; when his face isn’t burning with humiliation and his heart isn’t trying to tear itself apart in his chest. “Forget I said anything.”

Anakin moves to step past Obi-Wan, but the man catches hold of his wrist, stilling him in the doorway. “Wait—” he says brokenly. “Please, wait. I wasn’t… I wasn’t finished.

“The Code forbids attachment, Anakin. When it was decided I would assume the Hardeen identity, I knew that it would hurt you, but I thought you would abide by that Code. That you would move on without me, as is dictated. I never thought that you… that you would feel…”

“Feel _what_!?” Anakin snarls, wanting desperately to get away and lick his wounds, but then his back is hitting the doorframe and Obi-Wan is in his face and—

And Obi-Wan is kissing him. Hard and demanding and unlike anything Anakin had ever imagined.

It’s over almost as quickly as it began, Obi-Wan pulling away only far enough to breathe, “I never thought you would feel the same way I did; I never thought you could love me.”

Anakin is still angry with him. He’s angry, and hurt, but it doesn’t stop him from allowing Obi-Wan to pull him closer—letting the man clutch him to his chest as though Anakin will vanish into nothing if he lets go. There’s still a lot unsaid between, but Obi-Wan Kenobi loves him, and maybe that’s enough for now.


	9. Prompt: Breathtaking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: T  
> Prompt: Breathtaking kiss  
> Additional Tags: Canon Divergence, Post-Utapou, Anakin Doesn’t Fall
> 
> For the sake of this AU, pretend Anakin had a dollop of common sense and didn’t go running to Sidious’ rescue. Instead, he’s already at the Temple during Order 66.

He makes it back to his ship somehow, suspecting a blessing of the Force for why he isn't spotted by the clones patrolling the area, and clears the atmosphere without problem. Only once he's in the relative safety of open space does Obi-Wan allow himself to breathe. He can't relax, not with the way the Force is rending and tearing around him as its children are hunted down like animals, but he can breathe. He can breathe, and focus, and reach into the ether for the only signature that matters to him in this moment.

A sob of relief slips past his lips when his call is answered by the star-bright shine of Anakin's Force-signature. It's dulled slightly, by stress or by injury, but what matters is that it's there. What matters is that somewhere out in the galaxy, Anakin Skywalker is alive.

Obi-Wan monitors it as he flies out of the system, trying to decide what move to next make. While the logical decision would be to flee, to hide in wild space or some outer rim cantina and wait out this first wave of destruction, he knows his heart would never allow such a thing. He needs to know who has survived—needs to make sure Anakin is alright. He needs to return to Coruscant.

There is no answer when he attempts to raise the Temple on the coms. A foreboding feeling settles over him at the silence, but he can't stop now. The Force confirms Anakin's presence on-planet, so to Coruscant he'll go.

Getting through atmo proves to be more difficult than he expects. The planet's security force is out in full, stopping and redirecting ships to be searched as they come and go. Obi-Wan takes his fighter into the shadow of a large cargo freighter, using its bulk as a shield between himself and the security vessels. Breaking away as the freighter makes to land at port, he zips through traffic lanes until he can dive down the city's underbelly. It will be easier to find somewhere to make the aethersprite disappear there. Wandering eyes can easily be paid to forget; junkers are always eager for parts.

With the ship traded and credits pocketed, Obi-Wan wanders up through the city's levels until he's free from the underworld. He's careful to keep his hood up, his face far too well known to wander around in the open. Surrounding himself with a gentle suggestion to look away makes him all but invisible among the crowds that walk the city's streets. Anonymous in a way he hasn't been since he first defeated Maul on Naboo. He holds tight to Anakin's flickering signature, following its light like a homing beacon and trusting it to guide him to wherever the young Knight is hiding.

Obi-Wan both expects and doesn't to find himself on the front steps of the Temple. There is no security here despite the the business of the skies. This is, perhaps, because they expect to catch any Jedi that attempt to leave the planet; it could be because they don't think any Jedi have survived the assault. Death hangs heavy in the air as Obi-Wan forces himself into the great hall, the smell of blood and burnt flesh lingering. The bodies of his brothers and sisters litter the floor, marred by blaster wounds and vibroblade scores. Here and there a trooper's armor can be seen, armor pierced by a lightsaber's strike. Blue paint adorns the white gleam; Anakin's 501st. Obi-Wan thinks he might be sick.

The violence done here pounds at his mental shields, makes him want to turn and run, but warmth of Anakin's Light pulls him forward. Wandering through the cold, empty halls reveals nothing. He's passed the place where the Force tells him Anakin is three times before it occurs to him that he isn't looking close enough.

As a teenager, Anakin had always been prone to sneaking out of the Temple. Whether it be to race pods on the lower levels or visit the young Senator Amidala at her office, he seemed to spend as much time out of the Temple as in it. The maze of hidden rooms and passages that wind their way through the Temple's walls is a second home to him; if he were to seek out a safe place to hide, a place no one outside the Order would know to look, it would be there. With that in mind, Obi-Wan backtracks, following a mental map to where he knows the nearest entrance to the tunnels to be. While he may not be as familiar with sneaking around as his student, he had his own fair share of misadventures in his youth.

There is a grate slightly askew on the wall, just large enough for a man to crawl through. At first glance it appears to be an air duct, inconspicuous to anyone less familiar with the Temple's layout, but Obi-Wan knows this to be where Anakin got into the tunnels. He pries the grate loose and slips inside, using the Force to pull it closed behind him. It's a tight fit, even for him; he can't imagine how Anakin felt trying to worm his way through here.

As he works his way closer to Anakin's signature, Obi-Wan realizes that the man is not alone. From a distance his glow had masked their presences, but there are definitely a handful of other presences with Anakin. Their signatures are softer, easily buried below Anakin's, and Obi-Wan's heart twists when he recognizes them to belong to younglings.

It feels like eternity before the passage widens, his already sore muscles aching with effort of pulling himself through the cramped space. It opens on a dim hall, unlit, but Obi-Wan has no need for sight. Not when Anakin is so close, brushing soothingly against the frayed edges of his shields. He allows that Light to guide him, striding confidently down the hall until he reaches one of its many hidden rooms.

Obi-Wan's breath rushes from his lungs when he slips inside, igniting his 'saber and finding himself face to face with a dozen wide-eyed, terrified younglings. They obviously hadn't expected anyone to find them down here. They probably hadn't even known these halls to exist before Anakin led them down here.

Behind them, a shadow moves. Large, powerful; Obi-Wan knows it to be his padawan long before Anakin steps into the glow of his 'saber. "Obi-Wan--" Anakin breathes, pushing his way through the children to stand before his Master. "You're here."

For a long moment neither moves. Each takes in the other with hungry eyes, assuring themselves of their continued survival. Obi-Wan knows he must look a wreck, but Anakin doesn't appear to have fared any differently. He's battered and bruised, the glove on his right arm melted and charred from a blaster bolt that's rendered the limb all but useless. The younglings appear to have tried to patch him up with what little resources they had, his left leg bandaged with strips of a torn tunic.

When they've had their fill, Anakin steps closer, wrapping his good arm around Obi-Wan's neck and dragging the man to him. "I'm so glad you're ok," he says, and then his lips are on Obi-Wan's own.

There are a dozen sets of young eyes on them, but Obi-Wan can't find it in himself to pull away. The fact of the matter is, he loves Anakin Skywalker. He loves him more than anything, needs him like he needs oxygen, and can do nothing but release a breathless noise when younger man pulls away. Not far, the wet heat of his breath still ghosting across Obi-Wan's face, but enough to press his forehead to Obi-Wan's as they soak in the reality of each other's survival.

A small hand curls around Obi-Wan's left wrist, which had fallen to his side during Anakin's embrace. He turns enough to look down at the sandy-haired, human youngling standing there, staring up at them. The boy doesn't have to speak for Obi-Wan to understand.

The future ahead of them is uncertain, but with Anakin at his side, he can face whatever comes their way. This will be their legacy.


	10. Prompt: Oversharing OT3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oversharing  
> Rating: E  
> Pairings: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker, Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker/Padme Amidala  
> Additional Tags: Explicit Sexual Content, That’s Not How the Force Works, Porn Without Plot  
> ~2500 Words  
> Prompt: Oversharing Via Force-Bond

A Force Bond is a versatile thing. It can allow a Master to aid there Padawan in learning the nuances of the Force; it can allow a Bonded pair to keep track of one another outside immediate line of sight; a strong enough connection can even allow communication of thoughts and feelings between those it connects.

The strength of this connection varies from pair to pair, and Obi-Wan’s connection to his former student is truly exceptional. It’s a gift of the battlefield: moving and breathing and their hearts beating in sync. It’s a nightmare on shore leave: forcing the Councilor to excuse himself to his rooms as his body is wracked by an alien pleasure.

Anakin’s thoughts are loud, his feelings consuming. No matter how much Obi-Wan tries, he cannot block the sensation out. Tight, wet heat around his cock, lips skipping across the skin of his throat, nails biting at the skin of his back—all the while he lays alone in their quarters, his fingers tangled in the fabric of the sheets to stop himself from chasing his own pleasure.

Anakin comes back to their quarters sated and smug; Padme flashes him a teasing smile when she passes him in the halls of the Senate. They know what they’re do to him.

Until, of course, they aren’t. There has been none of that phantom pleasure for days, and Anakin looks about ready to crawl out of his skin. Obi-Wan knows Padme is busy—has been called out to the Senate more than once to consult on the vote over an upcoming bill. He’s seen the way Anakin paces their quarters, pent up energy shortening his attention span and setting his temper on edge. He’s noticed the way Anakin begins to stare at him as the days past, considering and hungry.

Therefore Obi-Wan is not altogether surprised when Anakin pins him to the wall in their quarters, hands braced to either side of his head. “Get off of me, Anakin,” Obi-Wan warns, placing his own hands on the younger man’s chest to prevent him from further closing the distance between them.

“I need you,” Anakin replies, as though he hasn’t even heard the protest.

“If you need this so bad, why don’t you go fuck your wife,” Kenobi hisses back, and realizes his misstep only when Anakin’s eyes narrow in smug delight.

“Such vehemence,” the younger man murmurs, leaning his weight into Obi-Wan’s bracing hands until his arms fold, allowing Anakin to press himself fully against his Master. Obi-Wan can feel the jut of his erection against his hip already. “What’s the matter, Master?” he asks, slow and sweet, and one of his hands comes up to brush teasing finger against the flush of his cheeks. “What’s got you so wound up?”

“Padawan,” Kenobi growls in warning, sinking a hand into the hair at the nape of Anakin’s neck and pulling—forcing his head back and the younger man out of his space. “Would you like to find out?” He says, and hears the hitch in Anakin’s breath, sees the flush blossoms across his cheeks. This is the reaction he wanted when he began pushing Obi-Wan’s buttons. Neither of them has the patience anymore to pretend otherwise.

Anakin nods shallowly, the grip his Master has on his hair preventing anything more. “Yes,” he gasps, “stars, yes.”

Obi-Wan needs no further permission, pulling Anakin down for a biting kiss. The younger Knight’s hands fumble for Obi-Wan’s belt, tugging it open and letting it fall to the floor without a thought to what might be contained in its pockets, nor to the lightsaber hilt still attached. The disgruntled noise Kenobi makes at the action is swallowed down before it can even pass his lips, Anakin pressing eagerly into his personal space and forcing him back across the room. Pieces of fallen clothing mark their path, Anakin eagerly divesting them both of their garments as he corrals Obi-Wan back toward the closest bed—Obi-Wan’s own, as it were.

The Master’s knees hit the mattress, and a strong push from Anakin is enough to send him falling down onto the bed. He doesn’t particularly mind, with how Anakin stares when he stretches himself out against the blankets. Left in only his undergarments, his erection strains the fabric as he presents himself to his lover. Anakin is similarly affected, pupils blown wide and pants similarly tented.

Pushing himself back to lean against the headboard, Obi-Wan gestures to Anakin—permission to approach. He’s quick to scramble up the bed, eagerly dropping into Obi-Wan’s lap. They kiss again, heated and luxurious, while Obi-Wan’s fingers map the lines of Anakin’s body. Trail down his side, squeeze briefly at his hips, before coming to rest on his ass. He kneads at the boy’s cheeks appreciatively before using his grip to pull Anakin down against him, grinding their still-clothed erections together. Anakin gasps, momentarily startled, but is quick to pick up the rhythm Obi-Wan sets.

He could, probably, get the boy off like this. He could make Anakin come in his pants like an oversensitive adolescent, but he’s feeling generous. And perhaps a bit vindictive.

“Please,” Anakin whines into Obi-Wan’s shoulder. “Please, Master, please.”

“What do you want?” Obi-Wan asks, taking hold of the boy’s hips and stilling his increasingly frantic movements.

“Please—”

“Use your words, Anakin. Tell me what you want.”

“I want—” The younger man groans, pressing his face into Obi-Wan’s neck as he tries to stifle his embarrassment. “I w-want… I want your cock. Please, Master, please.”

“Good boy,” Obi-Wan croons, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of Anakin’s undergarments and slowly peeling them off the boy’s ass. He shimmies out of them obediently, lifting himself to allow Obi-Wan to tug his own off.

There’s lube in the dresser, used more for his solo exploits than events like these. The bottle in his quarters on their Star Destroyer see more use in partnered affairs. Obi-Wan presses this bottle into Anakin’s hands, raising a pointed brow when Anakin looks at him with confusion. He understands after that, face further flushing as he squeezes the viscous fluid onto his fingers before reaching back to begin opening himself up. Obi-Wan watches the proceedings with hooded eyes, keeping a grip on Anakin’s already shaking thighs and digging his nails into the flesh with the boy’s every hushed gasp and groan.

Eventually Anakin decides he ready, bracing both hands on Obi-Wan’s shoulders as he sinks down onto his Master’s cock. Obi-Wan guides himself in with a grip on himself and on Anakin’s waist, letting go to hold the boy’s prominent hips when he feels the head of his cock breach Anakin’s entrance.

“Good,” he murmurs, pulling Anakin to his chest when the boy has taken him as far as he can. Anakin shutters under his palm as he strokes soothingly down his back, keeping him still while he adjusts to the feeling of Obi-Wan’s length within him. “You’re doing so well, darling.”

The boy nuzzles into his shoulder, rocking himself carefully in Obi-Wan’s lap at first, growing bolder as he becomes more comfortable. Soon they’re both breathing hard, and a firm hand around Anakin’s throat has the boy spilling over himself without ever being touched.

He whines when Obi-Wan shoves him off his cock, hazy and pliant in the wake of his orgasm. Obi-Wan flips Anakin onto his belly, draping himself over the younger man’s back when he pulls him up onto his knees.

“Ah! Master—” Anakin gasps when Obi-Wan sinks back into, flushed and panting as he squirms in his sensitivity.

“Sh… Sh… It’s ok, Ani.”

It’s difficult to hold still until Anakin finds himself again, coaxed slowly back to hardness under Obi-Wan’s hand. He’s just begun to resume their previous pace—begun to rock back into Anakin’s tight heat, when a com begins to sound from the floor.

Obi-Wan, already suspecting who may be calling, summons Anakin’s comlink from the folds of his robes with a lazy pull of the force. “A-Ani?” A confused, very flustered voice floats through the speakers. “Are you there?”

“I’m afraid Anakin is otherwise occupied at the moment, darling,” Obi-Wan purrs.  
There’s a pause as Padme processes what she’s hearing: Obi-Wan answering Anakin’s com, the younger man panting and whining in the background. “Obi-Wan, are you—?”

‘Fucking my husband’ does not get said aloud, though Obi-Wan thinks he would have rather enjoyed hearing it. Instead, Padme launches into:

“I was in the middle of a Senate session! I had to make an excuse to leave!”

There is no reprimand for the fact that he’s currently buried to the hilt into her husband, though he wasn’t expecting there to be. This is a matter they’ve discussed before, in the rare moments they get with each other without their nosy partner listening in. No, her outrage is simply at the ill-timing. Which Obi-Wan knows a thing or two about.

“And I was stuck an emergency Council meeting all night the last time you two were getting up to… Whatever it was you got up to.” he replies, thrusting shallowly into Anakin and enjoying the low whine it produces—enjoying the way the younger man tries to rock back and take more of him. It’s only when Obi-Wan presses a hand to the space between his shoulder blades—pushing down until Anakin’s arms give out—that the younger Knight stops, unable to get the leverage he needs. He’s horribly impatient; Obi-Wan files this thought away for later consideration. “You said you’ve excused yourself from session. Where are you now?”

“In one of the more private 'freshers. Not exactly private, but it seemed like too far a walk back to my office.”

“I suppose we better make this worth the risk, then.”

Obi-Wan drops the comlink onto the mattress at their side, the device’s volume turned up loud enough that he can still hear the rustle of fabric from Padme’s end of the line as she works to get beneath the ridiculous number of layers she wears—can still hear her sharp groan, only a hairsbreadth after Anakin’s own, when he presses back into the younger man, falling into a languid, luxurious rhythm. There is something exhilarating about knowing that Padme can feel everything Obi-Wan is doing to her husband, like his own sweet revenge for all the long nights he’d spent awake, desperately knotting his fingers in the bedsheets to keep from chasing his own pleasure while Anakin’s echoed in the back of his skull.

“Our boy is quite flexible, darling,” Obi-Wan purrs, running the hand previously pinning Anakin to the sheets along his skin and admiring the curl of his spine. For all the rumors that circulate through the Temple and Senate halls, Obi-Wan has actually only taken a few lovers in his lifetime. He doesn’t quite hold prowess he is believed to have between the sheets, but years of politics have left him with a silver tongue he isn’t afraid to use when he wants to get his way. “Do you take advantage of that when you take him to bed? You should see him now: on his knees for me, his face in the sheets. He arches so prettily; he’s so hungry for it.”

Padme doesn’t answer him beyond an appreciative groan, though he wasn’t expecting her to. He continues to narrate the sight before him, for her benefit: the sheen of sweat on Anakin’s skin, the heaving of his ribs as he tries to catch breath, the disarray Obi-Wan has forced his hair into when he’d grabbed Anakin by it earlier. The boy is gorgeous, and Obi-Wan tells them both just how much he enjoys taking him,

Beneath him, Anakin hisses, trying to work a hand to his groin to bring the phantom sensation of Padme pleasuring herself into the physical. Obi-Wan allows him this, returning his grip to Anakin’s hips and using the additional leverage to increase their pace.

Anakin is noisy in everything he does, so it is no surprise that he is loud in this, too. It’s astonishing that he and Padme have never been caught, with the way he wails his pleasure for anyone to hear. Obi-Wan’s name tumbles from his lips in a reverent chant, interspersed with Padme’s here and there when the woman does something particularly clever on the other end of their connection.

While Obi-Wan cannot experience that sensation himself, he sees the way Anakin writhes beneath him and reaches out with the Force, pressing past the younger’s shields and pouring his own feelings into Anakin’s mind. It is what Anakin wanted when he instigated this encounter: to share Obi-Wan’s pleasure the way he shares Padme’s. Anakin is greedy in his desire; he wants everything that his lovers can offer him. And Obi-Wan allows it.

Obi-Wan allows it, and loses himself in chasing his own end. In the rough pace they’ve somehow fallen into, Anakin hot and tight around him, and in Padme’s soft groans as she pleasures herself. It is intimate in a way Obi-Wan has never been intimate with another, knowing that he is as much fucking her as he is Anakin. She can feel the stiff line of his cock as he fills her husband, can feel its head catch on Anakin’s rim with every thrust. Anakin begs—begs for him harder and faster and please, please, please—and that power he holds over them both is a heady thing that swirls gold in Obi-Wan’s eyes, though Anakin is too delirious to recognize it.

Eventually Padme moans, louder than before, and Obi-Wan feels her orgasm rattle through Anakin’s own body. The boy spasms, chanting their names as he tumbles after her, painting the sheets with the evidence of his pleasure. The pressure, clamping tight around Obi-Wan’s cock, pulls him with them—driving as deep into Anakin as he can and filling the younger man with his seed.

“Fuck,” Anakin wheezes, muscles twitching beneath Obi-Wan’s cheek when he collapses atop him, spent. “Oh, fuck.”

“A fair assessment,” Obi-Wan chuckles, stroking a soothing hand down Anakin’s heaving ribs. “How are you doing, Padme darling?”

“I think Anakin summed it up nicely,” the Senator replies. “Stars, now I really don’t want to go back and argue with a bunch of blowhards.”  
This draws a chuckle from them all, and Obi-Wan listens dazedly as she cleans herself up. She is undoubtedly going to be back in perfect order in a matter of moments, ready to crush adversary under her heel with a ruthlessness he admires. Anakin, on the other hand, will most likely be out of it for the remainder of the afternoon, if not well into the evening. Sex like this, with his Bonds to his wife and Master so heavily involved, always wipes him out. At least, Obi-Wan thinks as he watches Anakin begin to drift off, he might actually be able to get some work done this evening without further interruption. He has a mountain of paperwork that needs seeing to before the next Council Session.  
“We must do this again sometime, General Kenobi,” Padme hums through the line.  
Obi-Wan looks down at the boy beneath him, already dozing off despite the fact that Obi-Wan has yet to pull out. “That sounds like a wonderful idea, Senator.”


	11. Prompt: Desert

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: T
> 
> Pairings: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker/Padme Amidala (Past), Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker (Past), Obi-Wan Kenobi & Darth Vader
> 
> Additional Tags: Post-Mustafar AU, Obi-Wan Raises Luke & Leia, Vaderkin
> 
> Prompt: "Vaderkin......Benobi? Is there Benobi? Maybe just after he gets to Tatooine and is just starting to collect just the right amount of sand that he's just salty about everything."

Ben Kenobi is one of them; the people of Mos Eisley know this. He is an offworlder, a stranger, a hermit, but he is a survivor. Sometimes they will see him as he wanders the marketplace like a ghost, hood pulled up to protect his too-pale complexion from the heat of the twin suns. He barters well, buying the supplies necessary for living among the Wastes, though the harsh syllables of Huttesse are strange in the crisp, Core accent he isn’t able to shed. Still, his presence is a rarity.

Rarer still are the days he is shadowed, two small figures trailing behind him and clinging to his robes. Unlike Kenobi, these are children of the Tatooine desert: tan-skinned, lean-muscled. More suited to survival beneath twin suns than their guardian, with his pale color and too-heavy build. They are a sight to behold, the Wizard’s children, though catching a glimpse of them falls along the same vein as finding a Krayt dragon’s pearl among the dunes.

They are absent today as he wanders between the stalls, trading Bantha-goods for supplies with his usual vendors. One moment he is smiling, another rarity in the children’s’ absence, the next he is rigid. His head snaps around, posture rigid, as he watches several of the new Empire’s Stormtroopers push their way into the marketplace.

The people of Mos Eisley know the hunted when they see them. Their eyes follow Kenobi as he slips into the flow of foot traffic, keeping his face downcast and his pace purposefully leisurely as he weaves toward the closest exit. He is effortlessly casual, though effortlessly casual is not the thing to be in a market full of Stormtroopers. Several vendors, sensing trouble, begin packing their things in a hurry to make themselves scarce; the rest remain to spectate, too curious about the fate of their local phantom.

He almost makes it. The exit, his parked speeder, are only a few yards away. Ben can see them, can taste freedom on his tongue, but in the next moment his path is blocked by a black-armored chest. He is grateful he left the twins at the homestead today—knows who this is before he’s even looked up.

In the end, he doesn’t bother to. In the end, he just runs. Spinning on his heel, Ben only just manages to avoid the black gloves that reach for him, taking off as fast as the sandy ground will allow him.

He weaves through the crowded aisles, aware of the sounds of pursuit behind him. The denizens of Mos Eisley step out of his path as he goes, clearing way. He may be a stranger, an outcast, a hermit, but he is father of two desert-children. Loyalty is a fragile thing in the desert, but they will grant him this small gesture.

“Obi-Wan!” He hears his pursuer snarl, feels fingers brush the back of his cloak, and is so focused on a speeder just ahead (empty, still-running, like that ever happens in this place) that he nearly overlooks the patrol of ‘troopers that stand in a blockade of white armor between himself and freedom.

But Ben is a Jedi General, the very last of his kind, and blockades are nothing new to him. His ally is the Force, and a few warm bodies won’t be enough to stop him. He leaps, using the wall of the alley as a springboard to propel himself higher. Up and up and up and over, until he lands safely in a roll on the other side of his obstacle. Sand catches in his robes as he tumbles, falls from folds when he rights himself and begins to run once more, but he pays it no mind. He leaps onto the speeder, has just pressed down on the ignition, when he feels the unmistakable tug of the Force around him.

Ben is yanked backwards even as the speeder shoots ahead, flying out from under him and careening aimlessly down the street until it crashes into the wall of a derelict building. The ground rises to meet him, and the pressure shifts. Instead of pulling him back, it is pressing him down. Holding him there in the sand until a pair of black boots are all that fill his vision. Only then does he allow himself to look up.

The man who was once Anakin Skywalker looks just the same as the last time Obi-Wan saw him nearly four years ago. Molten eyes, like the fires of Mustafar, peer down at him with curiosity and sick delight. His blond hair tumbles down to his shoulders in untidy curls, glowing like a halo under the light of the twin suns. It is a shocking counterpoint to the Darkness that radiates from him, as though he is the epicenter of a great black hole, sucking in heat and light and hope. This is Darth Vader, the Emperor’s Right Hand. This is the man Obi-Wan once thought himself to love.

The pressure holding him down relents at the same time Vader crouches, leaving them on even ground when Ben pushes himself to his knees. “Hello, Obi-Wan,” this once-lover purrs. “What a surprise to find you here, my husband.”

Ben does not dignify him with a response, turning his face away from Vader with obvious contempt. The man before him is not worthy of his time—is not worthy of the love Ben had once freely given. He shed the title of Husband when he shed his true name, becoming Ben the Hermit, Ben the Wizard, Ben the Father in their wake. Obi-Wan the Husband died with Anakin Skywalker’s wife.

“I had wondered where you had gotten off to, after what happened on Mustafar. And to think: I was angry when my Master sent me here to negotiate with the Hutts.”

An expectant pause; Vader is waiting for banter. He is waiting for Obi-Wan to engage. Ben will not give him the pleasure of a fight.

“Four years, and you’re not going to say anything to me?”

Silence again, except for the muttering of bystanders and the clicking of Stormtrooper armor as they shuffle in place.

A sigh.

Vader reaches out, lightning-fast, catching Ben’s chin in a firm grip and dragging it toward him. “Look at me,” he snarls when Ben continues to resist, a sharp yank finally turning the older man to face him. Ben tries to keep his expression impassive and unimpressed when Vader’s other hand brushes the fringe from his eyes, but it’s harder than he expected to suppress the repulsed shudder that wants to rack through him at the sight of the soft smile on Vader’s face. Anakin Skywalker had look at him like that, once. “There’s that beautiful face.”

Vader takes a long moment to drink in the sight, oblivious to the way Ben scowls up at him. Then, from one moment to the next, his expression changes. The smile drops, and he releases Ben as he abruptly stands and snaps a sharp order to, “Cuff him.”

Ben protests, struggling against the ‘troopers that wrestle his wrists into binders behind his back.

“Take him back to the ship.”

“W-wait!” Ben stutters, thoughts flying to the twins back on the homestead. The twins Vader doesn’t know exist. The twins Vader could kill in a jealous rage if he finds the homestead and doesn’t recognize them. The twins who believe their birth father a ghost—the hero of a time past. “No, I can’t leave yet! Vader! Vader!”

“Find out where he’s been hiding,” he hears the Sith command as the 'troopers drag him away. The people of Mos Eisley step out of the way. No one stops them, no one saves him. Loyalty is fragile in the desert. Ben Kenobi is one of them, but survival comes first.


	12. Prompt: Ring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ring
> 
> Rating: T
> 
> Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Darth Vader
> 
> Additional Tags: Post-Mustafar AU, Canon-Typical Violence, Vaderkin
> 
> Prompt: "What if, after viewing the security recording, Obi-Wan had stuck to his guns and refused to fight Anakin? Maybe Yoda wasn't there to push it? And Obi-Wan runs, possibly after dropping by Padme's to warn her - and afterwards, Vaderkin focuses on hunting down Obi-Wan and Obi thinks it's to kill him, but no its because he wants Obi to marry him - he wants his Master back, to raise his kids since Padme died, and obi-Wan is HIS after all..."

The cold of the spaceport is miserable, biting at his skin and sinking down into his bones. The few civilian clothes he's managed to obtain in his years of wandering are better suited for warmer climates than the wet chill of this place. It always seems to be raining, here; when it isn't, a heavy mist settles over the port in its place.

Another nameless spaceport on another nameless world, unimportant but for the fact that the Empire has been slow to reach it. No notable exports of desirable resources, there was no pressing need for Imperial presence. Ben has inhabited it for the past few months, making rent for a dingy apartment off under-the-table mechanical work. He is neither the best, nor the worst. Average and forgettable in the way of a man who does not want to be noticed.

It's agonizingly dull work. Sometimes he imagines himself a bounty hunter, or a pirate, or a leader at the head of the growing Rebellion he sees discussed on the holo from time to time. Something more exciting than his life as it is now: an endless parade of broken parts and frayed wiring. Alas, this is not the life meant for him, now. Obi-Wan Kenobi cannot draw attention to himself if he wishes to live long enough to see the end of the Empire's tyranny.

This is why he must move again, his belongings stowed in a small pack he crafted from the tattered remnants of his Jedi robe. Even after trading his tunics for a set of civilian clothes, he'd continued to wear the robe out of some lingering sentiment for the life he'd left behind. It was close enough to a standard traveling cloak that no one noticed the difference, and he'd kept it until the seams wore beyond repair. It's been given a new life beyond its intended purpose, now. Just like its owner.

"Passenger Shuttle 239 now boarding in bay seven," a robotic voice announces over the intercom system.

Ben rises from the waiting bench, swinging the pack over his shoulder and pulling out his identification documents for inspection. He'd traded the last of his credits for these papers, listing his name as Ben Lars. The forger had promised they'd pass the scrutiny of lazy dockworkers, but there are no lazy dockworkers here.

Instead there is an Imperial Officer in a sharp-cut olive uniform, flanked by two stormtroopers in their signature white armor. They stand out amongst the planet's continual misty-grey atmosphere, drawing the eyes of passersby and reminding them of the Imperial presence that's descended upon their unimportant little world. Ben had hoped to get out of here before they took full control of the ports; it seems he is just a few hours too late.

Gritting his teeth, he steps into line. He doesn't have another option now but to run the gauntlet and hope for the best. He can't remain on this planet much longer. Heightened security around the ports has cost him his job, temporary housing for troops has cost him his room, and more Imperial eyes means more risk of getting caught.

The Gran ahead of him is waved past into the bay, and it is Ben's turn to hand over his papers. His hands do not shake as he drops them into the officer's expectant palm, but it is a close thing.

"Ben Lars," the officer announces to no one in particular, his eyes flickering briefly between Ben and the attached photo before slipping his ID chip into a scanner. For a tense moment, nothing happens, and it feels as though Ben's heart as frozen in his chest. As though his lungs cannot draw enough oxygen.

Then the scanner beeps, a pleasant chime, and the light along its surface glows green. The officer pulls the chip out, proceeding to then shove the chip and his papers into Ben's chest. "Continue."

Ben clutches the bundle to his chest, momentarily dazed by the realization that everything had worked. It's only when one of the 'troopers harshly shoves him, combined with a command to, "Move along," do his legs remember how to move. They carry him on autopilot up the boarding ramp of the transport and into his seat. Only when he's settled does he dare release a relieved sigh. He's past the checkpoint; he's on his way to a new planet. What could possibly go wrong now?

 

* * *

 

He isn't sure when he dozed off, but Ben is woken when the transport shutters violently around him. He scrubs at bleary eyes, righting himself in his seat as other passengers to the same. They seem to have stopped moving, but they have not reached their destination. Outside the viewports is only the vast expanse of space.

"What's going on?" He asks, turning to the passenger next to him, and receives only a disinterested shrug in return.

"Probably mechanical problems. These transports are always breaking down," the Rodian grumbles.

Ben is just about to push himself to his feet, about to go and offer his help with whatever is holding up their trip, when the shriek of metal cuts through the ship. An emergency exit panel on the roof is ripped open, exposing them not to the vacuum of space, but some kind of boarding hatch. He already knows what's about to happen before four pirate drop through the hole into the transport.

The insignias worn on their clothes are not any of those he is familiar with, but there are countless pirate crews roaming the hyperspace lanes of the Outer Rim. Those that he does know are constantly changing: alliances being made and broken, captains overthrown and crews killed in crossfire. Even Ben cannot keep up—especially now that he is without the Order's resources.

The apparent leader, a Zygerian male, draws a large blaster from its holster at his hip and fires one shot at the Imperials who had scanned their documents at the gates, traveling with them and apparently attempting to play hero. The bolt cuts clean through one 'trooper's armor, splattering gore across his compatriots and the cabin wall. Several passengers scream; the other Imps are cowed into inaction.

"Here's how this is going to work," the Pirate Captain announces as his three lackeys spread out through the transport. "You're all going to give us your things, and if we like what you've got, we might just let you live. Anybody else tries anything funny, well..." He trails off them, tipping his head pointedly in the direction of the 'trooper's corpse.

If Ben were anyone else, he might have been content with handing over his meager belongings and hoping for the best. He might have played the role of frightened passenger and hoped against hope that the pirates let them be at the end of this. Unfortunately for Ben, he is not anyone else. He is Jedi General Obi-Wan Kenobi, this is a transport full of defenseless civilians, and the familiar weight of his lightsaber's hilt is suddenly heavy in his sleeve.

He has always valued the lives of others more than his own.

"Don't be stupid," the Rodian beside him says in an urgent whisper when Ben makes to rise to his feet. "You're going to get us all killed!"

"No one else is going to die here," Ben replies, pushing past him and stepping out into the aisle.

His movement draws the attention of the Captain, who turns to inspect him with a disdainful smirk. "What do we have here?" The Zygerian asks. "Do you have a problem, friend?"

Ben meets his eyes with a smirk of his own, sharp and dangerous in a way he hasn't been since the Clone Wars. The thrill of combat settles into his skin like an old friend; stars, he's missed this. "I'm going to give you until the count of ten, by which time I expect you and your men to be off this vessel and on your way," he announces.

"Are you?" The Captain scoffs. "And if we aren't? What do you think you're going to do about it?"

He gestures with the blaster, a truly ungainly thing, in a way that is probably meant to be threatening. The effect, however, is lost on Ben. The weapon is too big and clunky for the close quarter of the cabin. Powerful, yes, but a misplaced shot could easily rip through the ship's hull, killing the pirates as well as the passengers upon exposure to space's vacuum. He needs a clear shot—a slow moving target—in order to fire.

Ben will give him neither of these things.

Between one heartbeat and the next, he draws his 'saber from his sleeve, igniting the hilt and relishing in the recognition that flashes in the Captain's eyes. The fear. And while Ben slightly out of practice, his situation not allowing the time nor privacy to practice his forms to the full extent, he still has the upper hand over these _pirates_.

It is nothing to cut them down, shaken as they are by the appearance of a Jedi. Perhaps not the grand combat he'd hoped for, but better still than the monotony that has been his life for the last three years.  He stands over their bodies, barely breathing hard, and doesn't even consider the repercussions of exposing himself until a blinding pain erupts in the back of his skull. He staggers, braces himself on a seat back, and gets a blurry glimpse of a terrified Imperial Offer before his legs give out and his vision goes black. For a long time, he knows no more.

* * *

 

The second time Ben wakes, it is to the sounds of conversation. He's been moved, he realizes before he's even pried his eyes open. There is cold metal beneath his cheek and his hands are now cuffed behind him. His head spins and aches from the earlier blow.

The dimensions of whatever room he's in are small, a glance around revealing stacked boxes and a powered-down cleaning droid. Some kind of supply closet, then. 

Bits and pieces of the conversation float through the door to his makeshift cell, heard but not fully understood. Ben is still too disoriented for that.

"—captured a Jedi aboard this passenger transport, while on route to—"

"—description you sent. Are you sure—"

"Yes, sir. Human male, red hair, blue eyes—"

Everything swims back into focus with the pronouncement of, "Bring him to me," from an eerily familiar voice. Obi-Wan has not heard it since that last day, years ago. 

It used to carry with it the associations of nights beneath the warmth a shared blanket, the chaos of war set aside for a few brief hours of comfort and rest; of days filled with sweat and strain, laughter ringing through the training halls as they try to pin each other to the mats; of feelings unacknowledged and words unspoken, lingering touches and furtive glances.

Now it only brings the bitter reminder of destruction and death.

The Officer from earlier, along with two new troopers, appear when they slide open the door to his closet. He vaguely recognizes the style of their helm, the blue paint: Anakin's 501st. They are not gentle as they haul him to his feet, dragging him along when his legs refuse to cooperate. He is no longer the trusted General Kenobi to them; instead, another despised member of traitorous Jedi Order. Ben stares at the floor as they pull him down the transport's center aisle, still too disoriented to put up a proper struggle. From what he can see from this angle, the rest if the passengers must have already departed.

They stop in front of a familiar black boots, and a gloved finger hooks under his chin to pull his unresisting head up.

Standing before him is Darth Vader, though this is no surprise. Ben can't even work up the energy for a proper scowl and his former pupil scrutinizes him, the look on his face something between hunger and awe. "Hello, Obi-Wan," he says breathlessly.

"'lo," Ben slurs back, tongue clumsy. He definitely has a concussion.

Vader's eyes narrow at the uncharacteristic greeting, using his free hand to comb through Ben's hair in a gesture that's familiar from their days at war. The hair at the back of his head is wet and matted; Vader's fingers pull away coated with blood. "What happened?" The Sith demands, rounding on the Officer.

"W-we had to secure him somehow!" The man sputters, obviously startled by the Sith's reaction. "I hit him with--"

He does not finish that sentence. With a jerk of Vader's hand and swell of the Dark that turns Ben's stomach, the Officer's head twists, breaking with a sharp crack. His body tumbles lifelessly to the floor, and Ben frowns at it.

"Well, that was uncalled for," he sighs, almost petulantly, and Vader's attention returns to him. "Don't see why it matters that he hit me, when you're just going to kill me anyways."

"I'm not going to kill you, Obi-Wan," Vader says, stepping into his space. Ben strains weakly against the hold on him, tries to pull away from the hands that cup gently his face. "I've been looking everywhere for you."

This, Ben knows. It is the reason he had stayed in hiding: from the Imperials, the Rebels, and the remnants of the Jedi alike. With Vader's dogged pursuit looming over him, he would have been a danger to everyone around him. But if Vader truly doesn't wish to kill him, then—

"Why?"

The Sith's smile is pitying. Ben hates it. "You know why, Obi-Wan," he says, and Ben shakes his head in denial.

"No, I don't."

Vader is so close to him now, his breath ghosting across Ben's face, nose brushing against his. If he weren't being held up by the clones, he imagines he legs would be weak. This moment, this intimacy, is everything he once wanted. He's disgusted to find that a part of him still wants it.

"Don't lie to yourself. I know what you feel for me; I feel it, too. I need you as much as you need me." He reaches into a pocket of his utility belt, producing from it something that looks suspiciously like—

A ring. It's a simple thing: a wide, gold band, likely hand-crafted by Vader himself. Ben stares at it as though it is a poisonous viper. He'd had fantasies about a ring since he found out the truth of Anakin's marriage, but they never went anything like this. 

"You are going to be mine, Obi-Wan Kenobi," Vader breathes into his ear, clones holding him still while he slides the band onto Ben's finger. Then the Sith is pressing his lips hungrily to Ben's own to seal a promise the elder never made.

He suddenly can't help but mourn those monotonous days at port.


	13. Prompt: Festival Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: T
> 
> Additional Tags: Musician Obi-Wan, Fanboy Anakin, Mentions of recreational drug use
> 
> Prompt: "I really loved the Festival prompt you did for obikin, if you had the time and wanted to would you consider doing another fic for the prompt? Maybe from Obi-Wan's pov when he noticed Anakin? :)"

Obi-Wan stares out the window of the tour bus, watching the landscape pass in silence. The media may paint tour life as a wild ride from beginning to end—an endless parade of drugs and booze and babes—and sometimes it feels that way. Other times, however, it's a bit like this. It's sitting in the bus, the radio turned down low, as travel from one destination to the next. Quinlan, his drummer, is passed out cold on the opposite couch and Qui-Gon, bass, is up at the front chatting with their driver in his usual amicable manner. It's almost too peaceful, these brief lulls between the rehearsals and concerts and afterparties.

Still, there is an underlying tension that Obi-Wan can't help but feel—anticipation like an itch under his skin.

Tatooine.

There are a dozen other shows they could play, a dozen more locales with better pay, but they return to those hallowed grounds without fail every time the opportunity arises. They all know why Obi-Wan insists on this particular festival--they've all seen the sandy-haired boy that's caught their leader's attention. He's there every year, loyal and true, with deeply tanned skin and sparkling blue eyes that have captivated their leader since their very first appearance.

Obi-Wan knows what it is to be in love, but there's something about the desert boy that makes the emotion seem shallow and fleeting. When he looks down from the stage and sees him in the crowd, there is something in his chest that tells him that boy is _his_. His life, his breath, his everything. Across a thousand worlds, this thing that connects them would always lead them to each other.

Quin had laughed when Obi-Wan brought it up once, but grins with delight when Obi-Wan finally works up the courage to make a move. To approach the object of his desire during the show and oh, the restraint it had taken not to claim those plump, full lips in the middle of the song. Not to lean over the metal barrier between them and feel the texture of the unruly curls he’s watched grow over the years.

And the boy is everything Obi-Wan wanted, needed. The heat of his skin, the weight of him in Obi-Wan's lap. His voice as he chants Obi-Wan's name is sweeter than the richest melody; the taste of his lips more addicting than any drug. It is bliss, and he would trade away everything just to keep this boy by his side.

When Quin returns from his traditional after-show drinks, he seems unsurprised to find Anakin still there, his head on Obi-Wan's shoulder as they relax on the couch, tracing the tattoos across his still-bared chest.  He never questions when the bus pulls away, rumbling out onto the open highway and sweeping the boy from his life and into theirs.


	14. Prompt: Desert Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: T
> 
> ~1500 Words
> 
> Pairings: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker/Padme Amidala (Past), Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker (Past), Obi-Wan Kenobi & Darth Vader, Darth Vader & Skywalker Twins
> 
> Additional Tags: Post-Mustafar AU, Obi-Wan Raises Luke & Leia, Vaderkin
> 
> Prompt: "Hi! I really like the Obi-Wan raises the twins on Tatooine untill Vader finds him. Would you be willing to tell me what happens next? Maybe with the 501th and the 212th and Vader finding the twins? Love what you write!"

Vader had missed very little about the desert. Not the sand, nor the empty, aching void of sentient life. What he had missed was the warmth, and he finds himself basking in it as Appo drives them through the Jundland Wastes to the small homestead a local directed them to in exchange for a handful of credits. Of all the things Vader adjusted to about life among the stars, the constant chill was never one of them. Even now his robes are always just a bit thicker than those of his peers, the temperature in his private quarters always just a bit warmer. He was a child raised under two suns, and space is so, so cold.

When his Master had sent him to this dustbowl planet, all he’d had to look forward to was the suns. Finding his wayward husband here? Well, that is something he would have never expected. It seems like a gift from the Force itself because honestly, what are the chances that they happened to be on the same planet, let alone passing through the marketplace at the same time? Truly, there must have been divine intervention to bring about this miraculous happening. He’d all but given up on finding his wayward lover, after all these years.

He can still feel Obi-Wan in the Force when he reaches out, the Force bond they’d severed on Mustafar slowly patching itself back together. Frustration simmers beneath the surface of shields cracked from stress; anticipation and fear as well. That’s not the only Light he can feel, however. The homestead ahead all but hums with power, brought to vibrant life by what feels like two miniature suns. Vader can’t say he’s particularly surprised that Obi-Wan has taken some wayward Force-users under his wing—he’d thrown quite a fit when his men were commanded to find the homestead—though envy does curl like a dragon in his gut. These beings, whoever they are, have spent the last four years with Obi-Wan. Four years that should have rightfully belonged to Vader. He reaches out to them, curiosity getting the better him, and almost as soon as he’s brushed against those Lights do shields go up, all but vanishing from the Force with their effectiveness. In the back of his mind, Obi-Wan’s worry spikes into sharp panic.

As far as moisture farms go, Obi-Wan’s is well-tended. High-end vaporators hum as they work, powered by the solar panels laid out across the dunes. A herd of bantha graze on the Waste’s sparse shrubbery nearby, raising their heads curiously as armored clones pass them by. Vader can feel the Obi-Wan’s latent influence keeping them calm; he always did have a way with the local fauna.

The home itself is as nice as the rest, once Vader pries open the door with the Force. He can feel the hum of life within, warm and bright and comforting. The echo of laughter rings in his ears, grates at him. It turns his stomach to think that his husband had been happy here, away from him.

As much as Vader would like to explore the home, to discover just how his wayward husband has spent his days, he leaves that up to the clones. His first priority is to locate the Force-users before they find his clones. He can’t tell much about them with how well they’re shielding, but that is enough to know that they’ve not wasted the years. Clearly Obi-Wan has spent some time training them, and even a half-trained Jedi can pose threat to the Force-null clones if caught unawares.

He stalks the house like a predator, reaching out in the Force in attempt to locate the pair. It works, their shields stressed and cracking under the weight of their emotion with the closer he gets. By the time he rounds the corner into one of the rear rooms, they have given up on hiding themselves in favor of focusing entirely on escaping.

Vader is presented with the image of a young girl, holding the legs of another child as they climb through the window, very briefly. As soon as she notices him, she releases her grip, and Vader hears the other child topple to the ground outside with a muffled oof. He is quite lucky they are at ground-level, and that the sand will break the worst of his fall.

“Ouch!” The second child whines, but neither pays him any mind. The girl, as soon as letting go, had spun on her heel and pulled a very familiar lightsaber hilt from her belt. The weapon appears almost comically large in her tiny hands, but that isn’t what Vader is paying attention to. Instead, he finds himself studying her.

There is a fire in her dark eyes that he knows like he knows himself. Brown hair, gently curling, is pulled away from a rounded face. It provides him with an unimpeded view of her features—features that take his breath away. He almost doesn’t believe it possible, but the dragon in his ear whispers fervent agreement: She looks just like Padme.

The boy pops his head back through the window, and there is no denying Vader’s growing suspicion, now. Looking at him is like looking back through time to his own younger self. Shaggy blond hair and blue eyes, a warm glow in the force. He has her features, too, softer than Anakin’s own.

These are their children. His twins, he thinks with awe. They lived, and Obi-Wan has spent the last four years raising them.

Throwing out a hand, Vader calls his old lightsaber hilt to him. The girl squeaks in surprise as it is wrenched from her grip, not strong enough to keep hold of the hilt against the influence of the weapon’s rightful owner. He has no interest in engaging his own daughter in combat, and won’t have her hurting herself in the process of trying to ward him off.

Both children shriek when they’re grabbed—the boy by Appo outside and the girl by Vader himself. It’s no small feat to get them back to the speeders, as they kick and writhe all the way there, yelling for their father. I am your father, Vader wants to snap, but suspects that to be a conversation best had in Obi-Wan’s presence. They don’t trust him yet; they wouldn’t believe him.

By the time they reach port, the boy has mostly settled. He seems to be the calmer of the pair, taking in their surroundings with a keen, analytical eye that he clearly inherited from his mother. It makes Vader want to watch him all the closer, if not for the way his sister is still flailing in his grip, spitting a collection of curses a girl her age could only learn on Tatooine and lashing out at anyone who wanders close enough. He has to trust his clones to handle the boy, or else he’ll drop the girl. As it is, he has to hold her under her arms and keep her as far from him as he can manage, having taken a surprisingly strong kick to the gut on the way to the speeders.

As soon as they’re within sight of Obi-Wan however, he gives up all hope of keeping the children restrained. The girl leans over when he’s momentarily distracted by the boy’s struggling in his commander’s arms, biting down viciously on his organic hand through his glove. Vader yelps, dropping her on reflex, and she takes off running as soon as she hits the sand. Her brother is quick to join her, slipping from Appo’s grip after a well-executed wiggle.

Clearly visible in the cargo hold of their transport, Obi-Wan is bound and seated. His head shoots up at their shouts of, “Daddy!” and Vader watches him struggle against the binders that hold him in desire to reach out to the children. He can’t get loose, but the boy quickly climbs into his lap anyways when they reach him. The girl hovers at his shoulder, scrutinizing his binders and the bruises his struggles have raised. There is visible relief in Obi-Wan’s face as he inspects the twins for damage, but his fear in the Force has yet to fade. Undoubtedly he is still concerned with what Vader is going to do to him—do to them—now that he’s found them.

The only thing he wants to do is hold them. Obi-Wan, the children whose names he has yet to learn, any of them. Just hold them close and soak in the realization that he’s no longer alone—bask in their Light like he had the suns of this planet. The desire is strange, one he hasn’t felt in some time, and he’s sure he’ll be furious with Obi-Wan later once the reality of the situation sinks in. For now, however, he calls the rest of his clones back and instructs the pilot to take off. There will be time for that later. Now that he has them with him, they will have all the time in the galaxy.


	15. Prompt: Leaving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: G
> 
> Additional Tags: Post-The Wong Jedi, First Kiss, Getting Together
> 
> Prompt: Hello... I'm not sure, but are you still taking any writing prompts? If you are, would you please write just simply some extremely fluffy Obikin? I really need to read some fluffy Obikin, and I'd be so grateful if you wrote some. If you feel like it of course. Thank you either way and keep up with your writing because it's very good!

It's late when the door chimes, drawing Anakin from the light doze he'd fallen into as he watched some old movie on the holo. Ahsoka has long since gone to bed, the recent upheaval in her life having left her in a perpetual state of exhaustion that will take time to recover from. Every time Anakin catches her napping—on the couch, on the floor, in the bed in her borrowed room—his heart clenches painfully. It's easy to forget at war, but the girl is still so young; a teenager. She's been through so much in her short life.

The door chimes once again, and Anakin pushes off the couch to find out who it is before they wake Ahsoka.

He is both surprised and not to discover Obi-Wan Kenobi standing in the dark of the Naboo night.

"Can I come in?" He asks.

Anakin steps out of the doorway to allow him past.  He knew it was only a matter of time before the Council sent someone after him to try and talk him out of his decision to leave the Order with his student following the horrible handling of her trial. Still, he hadn't expected them to send Obi-Wan. "Do I want to know you found us?"

"You never severed our Force-Bond before you left," he says as passes. "This place is nice," the older man notes, stripping off his traveling cloak and hanging it up on a rack just inside the door.

Anakin guides him down the entry hall and into the living space he'd previously been occupying. "It belongs to Padme's family. She offered it to Ahsoka and I until we figure out what we're going to do now that we've left the Order."

They settle on the couch; close, but not as close as they might have should the situation be different. The holo is still playing at a low volume.

"That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about."

Anakin sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. Here they go. "Obi-Wan, I don't expect you to understand why I left the Order—"

"I do, Anakin." Obi-Wan interjects. "I do understand." Anakin looks up at him, trying to gauge his sincerity. There is an openness to his old mentor's face that he hasn't but for a few rare moments. "What happened with Ahsoka, with her decision to leave... I understand why you chose to follow her. The Order hurt you--the both of you--in ways that can never be forgiven. You deserve better than that."

"Some pep talk," Anakin says with the chuckle. "And here I thought you were sent here to drag the precious Chosen One back to the fold."

"No," Obi-Wan assures, "I'm not here to take you back. I wouldn't; hells, I'm not even going back."

That catches Anakin's attention in a way that nothing Obi-Wan has said had. "W-wait. You're not going back? You left the Order?"

"Yes, I did."

"You?" Anakin scoffs, the disbelief heavy in his voice. "You? Obi-Wan Kenobi, the perfect Jedi?"

The elder man flushes, ducking his head and scrubbing a hand anxiously over the nape of his neck. "Your decision to leave the Order, it... It gave me a new perspective. About the Jedi, about the war. When I was younger, the Jedi Code was everything to me; I was happy to dedicate my life to its tenants. But since the war, I've come to realize that there is more to life than peace. You can't just—" he breaks himself off, waving a frustrated hand in the air as he fumbles uncharacteristically for his words, "—just meditate away the emotion that comes with that.

"When you left, I realized that my heart belonged to something else; to someone else. I can't live with one foot in each world, and I would rather spend my life at their side than force myself live as a Jedi when I can no longer believe in their most basic tenants."

As much as Anakin wants to be happy for him, wants to rejoice in Obi-Wan's decision to finally slip the Council's leach, his words are like a knife to Anakin's gut. A hundred faces flicker behind his eyes; all the beautiful senators and representatives and civilians who've ever looked at his Master with something warm in their eyes. Everyone whom Obi-Wan returned the gesture to. Who is it? Who has brought upon this sudden rebellion, which Anakin could never hope to inspire? "Well, whoever they are, they'll be lucky to have you, Master."

Anakin tries for a supportive smile, for Obi-Wan's sake, but he can tell it doesn't quite reach his eyes. Confusion flickers across the man's face has he takes in Anakin's strange tone, his guarded posture. It settles into understanding when Anakin loses the fight with his own emotions and a few tears drip down his burning cheeks.

"Anakin," Obi-Wan says gently, reaching to take Anakin's hands in his own, and Anakin wishes that he had the energy to push him away. It feels like all the strength has rushed out of his body. Saying goodbye to Obi-Wan once was hard enough; he isn't sure how he's supposed to manage knowing that, this time, Obi-Wan is leaving him for someone else. Someone else who will have everything Anakin has ever wanted since he was old enough to understand what the word love really meant. "Oh, you foolish boy."

He finds himself pulled gently to Obi-Wan'd chest. "It's you, Anakin," Obi-Wan whispers fervently into his hair. "Anakin, it's always been you.

"If—if you would have me." He sounds so hesitant, so unsure, as though suddenly thinking that maybe Anakin is upset for a different reason. That maybe he doesn't share Obi-Wan's feelings.

He does, though. He does. He loves Obi-Wan so much that sometimes it hurts, and he won't have the man believing anything else. So he leans up, tilting his head until he can press his lips to Kenobi's in a kiss that maybe a little sloppy, but sincere.

For a moment the man freezes, but then his hands are sinking into the hair at the back of Anakin's neck, and he's tilting Anakin's head to a more optimal angle. A low groan slips free from his Master's throat when they finally pull apart, resting his forehead against Anakin's and sharing his breath.

"I love you, Anakin Skywalker." he whispers, and Anakin is helpless against the smile that curl his lips. The tears that slip free this time are born of a joy he never expected to feel.

"I love you, too,"

Ahsoka doesn't seem particularly surprised to find Obi-Wan seated at the kitchen table the following morning, scrolling through a datapad and sipping at a mug of tea. She smiles at him, bumps her side into his as she passes, then joins Anakin in the kitchen to

"We're going to be ok," she says as she chops vegetables, and Anakin isn't sure whether she's talking to him, or to herself.

Either way, he throws an arm around her shoulder, pulling her close in a quick squeeze and dropping a kiss between her montrals. "Yeah, Snips. Yeah, we are."


	16. Prompt: Roommates AU PT 2 OT3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: T
> 
> Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker/Padme Amidala
> 
> Additional Tags: Polyamory, Established Relationship, Referenced Character Death
> 
> Prompt: Roomates AU + nightmares

Obi-Wan wakes at the first jostling of the mattress. He has always been a light sleeper, and in the past had hated how easy it was to wake him—how difficult it was to fall asleep again. On those nights he’d lay in bed, fists curled in the fabric of his comforter as he listened to Padme quietly coax Anakin down from the blind panic he’d awaken in following a nightmare. It’d been agony unmatched; listening to Anakin’s stifled sobs, hearing Padme’s soft reassurances, and knowing there was nothing he could do about it. Then, it hadn’t been his place to interfere. He was only a friend, a roommate. Close, but not close enough.

Now, however, is a completely different story.

Cracking open his eyes, he watches Anakin sit up beside him and rub the heel of his palm into his eyes. His shoulders hitch as he tries to regulate his breathing, but Obi-Wan can tell that he’s losing that fight. Anakin knows, too, because he launches into the delicate process of trying to wiggle out of bed without waking his partners. It’s too late for that, of course. There’s no real way to get off the bed without jostling at least one of them considering Anakin prefers to sleep in the middle of the bed whenever he can. He and Padme are already awake, Padme probably has been as long as Obi-Wan, but they wait until Anakin has fled out into the living room before sitting up.

“Do you want me to get him?” Obi-Wan asks. “I know you have an exam in the morning.”

Padme shakes her head, scrubbing tiredly at her eyes. “No, better we both go. He looked really wound up.”

They climb out of the bed with matching sighs, Padme pulling a robe over her thin nightgown while Obi-Wan fumbles in the dark for his sweatpants and tee shirt. They probably both look a mess, but at least they’ll be in good company. Over the last few weeks, none of them have gotten a lot of sleep. Between the approach of final exams and Anakin’s increasingly frequent night terrors, they’re averaging no more than four or five hours a night. If that.

Anakin is seated on the couch when they slip into the living room, staring into the middle distance and wringing his hands anxiously. He doesn’t seem to even notice their approach until Obi-Wan clears his throat, his head swinging toward them with wide, startled eyes. “Oh,” he says quietly, “you’re up.”

“Do you mind if we sit with you?” Padme asks gently, and Anakin jerkily nods his assent.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he sighs, trying to scrub away his tears while Obi-Wan and Padme settle on either side of him.

“It’s alright,” Obi-Wan assures. “You shouldn’t be alone.”

The silence that follows is as heavy and as awkward as it always is. Anakin is curled tightly in on himself, enough that he doesn’t brush against either of his partners on their small couch. None of them are entirely sure how to broach the subject that chased them from the comfort of their bed in the early hours, Anakin still trembling with the residual terror of his nightmare and the guilt of keeping his partners from sleep. They sit quietly until one of them figures our something to say.

"I'll go put the kettle on. I'm sure we could all use a drink," Padme murmurs as she stands, bending briefly to drop a kiss to the top of Anakin's head before she wanders off to their small kitchenette. She flashes Obi-Wan a sharp look as she goes, clearly wanting him to take this time to talk to Anakin about his dreams. The silence that’d previously hung over the room is broken by the clattering of kitchenware as Padme works in the kitchen.

"Would you like to talk about your nightmare, Anakin?" Obi-Wan asks. He isn't expecting Anakin to take him up on the offer—he never does—but he wants his partner know that he is willing to listen. He's always willing to listen. "It seems to me like they've gotten more frequent since I joined you and Padme. Is it... Is it something I've done?"

"Yes," Anakin croaks softly, and the answer is like a knife to Obi-Wan's gut. He can't think of anything he might have done to hurt the younger man, but he was also completely oblivious to his feelings for so long. If he'd done something, why hadn't Anakin said? Why hadn't he— "Yes, and no."

"What do you mean by that?" He manages to wheeze out through his worry, clinging to the hope that comes with that one small no.

Anakin sniffles, scrubbing at his reddened eyes before dropping his head into his hands. He looks so small, hunched and curled in on himself. Obi-Wan wants desperately to comfort him, but it is rare that Anakin accepts contact after a nightmare. "I don't—I don't think I've ever told you about my mother, have I? About how she died?"

"You haven't. Padme has mentioned that it's not something you like to think about, so I have been hesitant to ask."

"I was, um, I was still pretty young. Nine. A couple of kids broke into our house one night. I never knew my dad, but apparently he was a pretty big deal on Tatooine's organized crime scene.

My mom got out when I was born, but these kids from a rival gang of the one she used to run with got it in their heads that they'd make names for themselves by taking her out.

"She tried to scare them off, they were young and nervous about the whole thing, tried to end it without having to hurt anybody. That wasn't who she was anymore. But, uh, one of the kids' fingers slipped, and he shot her.

"They spooked and took off, and I called an ambulance like I'd been taught, but there wasn't anything I could to for her. I was so young, and helpless, and I had to just... Sit there. Sit there and watch her bleed out."

"Anakin," Obi-Wan murmurs, watching his partner's shoulders shake with the force of every stifled sob, feeling the way he trembles when he finally dares reach out and place a hand on Anakin's arm.

"I still dream about it, except in my dreams, it isn't her anymore. It stopped being her a long time ago. In my dreams it's Padme—or you, since you joined us—laying there on the living room floor, your blood is all over my hands, and I can't do anything to help you."

Obi-Wan is startled when Anakin suddenly lunges into his space, clawing frantically at the fabric at the back of his shirt and tucking his face into the crook of the older man's neck. "I can’t—I can't lose you, either of you. Not the way I lost her. I can't do it, Obi-Wan," he sobs.

If it had hurt to think he might have unintentionally hurt his partner, this is a thousand times worse. This is like someone has taken that knife and twisted, twisted, twisted until he's bleeding out on their couch, their carpeting, just the way Anakin sees in his dreams. He wraps the younger man in his arms, pulling Anakin as close as he can get him, until there's no space between them.

"We're not going anywhere, Ani," a soft voice says, and both men jump at the sudden intrusion. They hadn't been aware of Padme's return until she sets three steaming mugs of coco on their small side table and sits on Anakin's other side. She wraps her arms around Anakin's waist and leans into his back so that he's sandwiched between them, snug in the arms of his partners. "I promise you won't lose us."

Obi-Wan knows that it's not something they can really guarantee, that sometimes the unthinkable happens no matter your intentions, but in this moment, with Anakin trembling in his arms and Padme pressing gentle kisses to the nape of the younger man's neck, he thinks he would do anything to keep this.

By the time Anakin settles enough to fall into a light doze, their coco has long since gone cold. Padme is quick to follow, and Obi-Wan has to stifle a chuckle to keep from jostling his partners too much. Instead, he shifts until he's leaning at least partially against the sofa's armrest, allowing his partners to rest against him as he closes his eyes and tries to catch a few more hours of sleep before their alarms go off and another day begins.


	17. Prompt: Sugar Daddy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: T
> 
> Relationships: Pre-Anakin Skywalker/Obi-Wan Kenobi
> 
> Additional Tags: Sugar Baby/Sugar Daddy AU
> 
> Prompt: By all means. Write a sugar daddy! Obi one shot. With sugar baby!ani I'm assuming? Oh dude. Definitely do it

The club is fairly crowded at this time of night, patrons sliding in through the tasteful yet inconspicuous doors in order to begin a much-needed evening of relaxation and debauchery. The smell of cigar smoke and expensive perfumes hang heavy in the air; music plays at a volume high enough to be noticed, but low enough as to not interfere with conversation. Servers come and go from a bar near the entryway, carrying drinks and cigars on trays to the numerous private alcoves that line the perimeter of the room or to the sunken seating area at its center.

On a platform within the seating area, at the very heart of the room, a woman performs her acrobatic routine on a silver pole that glimmers in the low light. She is precise in her movements, well-practiced and poised, erotic more for her grace than the swell of her unbound breasts. Ben watches her spin to the rhythm of the music from the privacy of his own alcove, a cigarette between his fingers and a pleasant buzz in his head.

Ben Kenobi lives for nights like these, away from the cameras and the crowds; From the worshipers that grovel at his feet and the friends waiting to stab him in the back. Nights like these are a blessing; this place a sanctuary. Here is where business is put aside in the name of carnal pleasure. Here is where enemies can share drinks and know their secrets will be kept within the safety of these walls. The atmosphere is addicting.

Tonight, however, there is an anomaly–a disturbance to Ben’s otherwise unremarkable routine.

A boy.

This must be his first time coming, because Ben cannot recall seeing him here before. He’s down on the lower levels, talking quickly and laughing loudly with the other bunnies who weave their way through the seated crowds. His own clothes are nice, but not nice enough to distinguish himself as a charge of one of the socialites who make up the club’s usual clientele. The jacket he wears hangs like something off the rack, too long in the sleeves and baggy around his waist. The pants, too, could do with some tailoring. They hang loosely off narrow hips, even with the aid of a sturdy belt.

Still though, for all the ill-fit of his clothes, Ben would admit that the boy is… Pretty. Young–early twenties at most–with sharp features that seem to belong better in a renaissance painting than a smoky, dimly-lit club. Blond hair tumbles down to his shoulders, curled and unruly despite an obvious attempt to tame it. Beside his right eye: a scar, trailing from brow to cheek. There is a story there, alluring in its mystery.

Ben hadn’t come here looking to take someone home, but he has always had a weakness for pretty things.

A small gesture is enough to summon a server to his alcove, the woman nodding politely and hurrying off to complete his murmured request. Obedience, Ben has come to find, is more often bought than earned. It is fortunate, then, that he can afford plenty of it.

The boy seems genuinely surprised when he notices her approach, pushing her way through his throng of conversation partners to deliver him a fresh drink. Ben can’t hear what he asks the server, but the answer doesn’t seem to satisfy him. She points over her shoulder to Ben’s corner, and he makes a show of sliding his eyes appreciatively over the boy’s body when he meets Ben’s gaze. The lighting is wrong to properly appreciate the flush that undoubtedly rises to the boy’s cheeks, but the stiffening of his posture is enough to betray how much the stare flusters him.

Ben is a patient man, which is fortunate considering the pace of the boy’s approach. His path takes him around almost the full perimeter of the room, affording him plenty of time to size Ben up, taking in his clothes and his posture while he sips at his fresh drink. Ben tolerates this scrutiny, welcomes it even, allowing himself to sprawl leisurely against the soft fabric of the sofa; presents himself like a peacock displaying plumage, though the comparison would likely rile him should it come from someone else.

He lights up a cig as he waits out the slow advance, allowing his gaze to skip over the other patrons as they watch the boy. Curiosity, appreciation, hunger; they cover the full spectrum of emotions that can be found in this place. Undoubtedly one or two of them would like to take this bunny into their care. He doesn’t seem to notice their attention, however, with his own thoroughly fixed on Ben.

Oh, he likes that.

The boy’s drink is empty by the time he stands just outside the entry to Ben’s alcove, chugged down in a last grasp for liquid courage. He hands the glass to a passing server before taking a single, faltering stepping closer. Now that he’s actually here, he seems at a loss for what to do.

“Close the curtain,” Ben instructs, and the boy obeys despite the shaking of his hands. Afterwards, he hovers just inside the boundary created by the wall of fabric, staring fixedly at the floor and fiddling with the sleeves of his jacket in an unconscious, nervous twitch. This new privacy has drained the last of his confidence. “What’s your name?”

“Anakin,” comes the soft answer.

“I’m Ben.” Reaching over, he snubs his cigarette out in an ashtray on a small side table. “What brings you out tonight, Anakin?”

Anakin shrugs, shuffling his feet and ducking his head. “Just came for a drink.”

“Oh Anakin, we both know this isn’t the kind of place one comes just for a drink,” Ben says with a chuckle, enjoying the way flush darkens the boy’s cheeks. “Why don’t you come over here so I can get a better look at you?”

Anakin does, closing the distance between them until he resides in the space between Ben’s spread legs. Ben takes his time scrutinizing the younger man as she shuffles awkwardly in place. He’s even more gorgeous up close, even though he seems unsure of how to proceed. This naivety might have been off-putting on another night–Ben has a preference for more experienced partners–but tonight he finds himself content to lead.

He reaches out, hooking a hand behind Anakin’s thigh and pulling until the boy gets the picture. Anakin allow himself to be guided up and into Ben’s lap, his knees on either side of the older man’s hips. “You want to be taken care of, don’t you, Anakin?” Ben croons. The question is mostly rhetorical, but the way Anakin buries his face in Ben’s shoulder would be confirmation enough. “That’s alright; there’s nothing to be ashamed of. You’re not the only one here looking for that.”

He brushes a hand down Anakin’s back, feeling the way the fabric of his jacket strains with contortion beyond its means. Anakin would look so nice in a well-tailored suit. “I can do that for you, if that’s what you want.”

“Why?” Anakin asks, barely more than a whisper. “Why would you?”

“I like to surround myself with beautiful things, and you, my boy, are exquisite.” Anakin shudders against him at his use of the possessive title, and Ben presses further. “I’d like to have you,” he breathes into Anakin’s ear.

The words draw a whine from Anakin’s throat, leaning up to rest his forehead against Ben’s while his hands reach down to fumble with the buckle of Ben’s belt. The older man catches his hands, stilling them before he moves them to rest back up on his shoulders. “Not tonight,” Ben chuckles. “Tonight just sit here with me.

"Can I get you another drink, bunny?” He asks as Anakin slides off his lap, situating himself under Ben’s arm and curling into his chest.

“No thank you,” he murmurs, finally allowing himself to relax.

“Why don’t you tell me about yourself then, Anakin?”

So he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How many prompts can I fill in a weekend? A surprising amount, when I'm procrastinating about other things.


	18. Prompt: Mirror

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally going to be a big smutty thing but then I didn't feel like writing the smut part oops.
> 
> Rating: M
> 
> Additional Tags: Jedi!Ob-Wan, Emperor!Vader, Alternative Universe, Dimension Traveling
> 
> Prompt:
> 
> Can I prompt you to write a fic where Obi-Wan ends up in an Alternate universe where Anakin was always a sith, and is currently the emperor of the new sith/galactic empire, and there are no more jedi - but because of his bond with HIS Anakin, Obi-Wan also ends up with a Force Bond with THIS Vaderkin, who immediately imprints and obsesses over Obi-Wan because of it. Obi-Wan, meanwhile, is just trying to get home...

"Does he know what he's missing out on, this other me?" Vader rasps in Ben's ear, his elbows braced against the wall on either side of Ben's head and his body pressed tight to Ben's. There is not an inch of space between them, each luxurious grind of the Sith's clothed hips against his own sending a spark of pleasure up Ben's spine.

A part of him wants to shove this yellow-eyed mirror of his beloved student off him. A part of him always does. The rest of him knows that there is no escape--not with Anakin's voice in his ear and his smell in his nose and his hands (both made of warm flesh, strange but not unpleasant) sliding down off the wall grab at his rear and pull him impossibly closer. Until he can feel every inch of the Emperor's hard cock pressed up against his own.

A part of him will always want to run, but the rest of him knows that there's no escaping this. When it comes to Anakin, Ben has always been weak.

"Does he know how much you care for him? That you'd die for him? That you'd kill for him?"

Vader's hands release their grip on Ben's ass to slide around to the front of his pants, undoing the ties with practiced, nimble fingers before shoving his pants and underclothes down to Ben's knees. They trail back up his naked thighs with a deliberate slowness that could be considered teasing if Ben was paying attention to such things. Instead his focus is entirely inward, on the twisted, distorted Bond that once connected him to his student and now ties him to the ruler of the Sith Empire in this galaxy that is not his own.

Vader's presence in his mind is nothing like Anakin's. Anakin was a star gone nova, bright and blinding and powerful; Vader is a black hole, empty and all-consuming. He is a monster made of greed, driven by a hunger that can never be sated. The only reprieve he gets is in these moments, when he consumes everything that Ben is all over again.

"Does he know you love him so much that you'd let me do this to you? That you'd let me touch you like this just so you can have a taste of what you truly desire?" His hands once again splay across Ben's ass, his thumb brushing the Jedi's entrance. "Do you think he'd be jealous if he knew?"

Ben is still loose from the last time they fucked, and Vader meets little resistance when he presses the digit past the rim. The Sith breath comes in wet, excited pants against the shells of his ear. He likes to feel the effect he has on Ben, likes to watch his seed slide down Ben's thighs when they're done. Anakin was always possessive, but curtailed what he could; Vader has no qualms against acting on those impulses.

Apparently deeming him loose enough to continue without any additional stretching, the Sith slides his finger out and sets to work untying his own trousers. Ben, meanwhile, steps out of his pants. Vader has shown no inclination toward moving this somewhere horizontal, and he could do without the additional hindrance of the fabric.

This proves to be the correct call, as Vader hooks his hands under Ben's thighs and lifts, pulling him up until the Jedi can wraps them around his hips. Vader pins him to the wall as he sinks down on the man's cock, a breathy moan escaping him at the sensation of being filled; the stretch and burn are something he doesn't think he'll ever tire of. Ben throws his head back, knocking it against the wall behind him harder than he intends, as the Sith bends his neck to mouth at Ben's own.

"If I had known I could this--that I could have you--I think I might have saved you." Vader murmurs into his skin. "The you that wasn't you. If I could have had this all those years ago, I would have asked my Master to spare him for me, instead of watching a firing squad execute him with the rest of his Order.

"Do you think he would have let me have him like this?" Vader muses.

Ben pries his eyes open, meeting Vader's own sickly yellow when he declares, "I think he would have been disgusted by you."

Vader's lips curl into a wicked smirk. "Fair enough."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not exactly what you asked for but this is what the muses were inspired to write so [shrug]


	19. Prompt: Desert Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is pretty short. I wrote it quickly before I went to work. Was prompted for a part 3 of the Desert-Verse

"You have to let me see them eventually," Vader murmurs, smoothing a hand down his husband's bare chest before pulling Obi-Wan closer. The scars on the skin beneath his palm are somewhat familiar, but desert life has undoubtedly taken its toll on his former Master. Compared to the old war scars, those obtained on Tatooine are not nearly as clean. The price and scarcity of bacta, let alone a decent medic, would have left him with few options when it came to healing. Especially when hiding from the Empire meant limiting his use of the Force.

"They don't want to see you," the man replies, achingly nonchalant considering the subject of conversation. "And if you ever want them to become accustomed to your presence--" Kenobi's hand drifts across Vader's thigh, pressed to the backs of Obi-Wan's, before digging his thumb viciously into the bandage there. "--you'll remember this and leave them be until they're ready."

Vader strangles a yelp at the pain that races up his leg, releasing his grip on Kenobi in favor of shoving the man away and off their shared bed. The reminder of his last interaction with the girl child, Leia, is quite unwelcome. The place where she'd stabbed him with one of her brother's tools aches even without his husband regularly aggravating it.

Kenobi had taken the comforter with him when he tumbled off the edge of the bed, and Vader throws the thin sheet left covering him to the foot of the mattress before bending to inspect the bandages his husband habitually aggresses. It rightfully should have been healed days ago, but Vader had found himself too proud to seek out a medic for the appropriate bacta solution. The addition of his husband's incessant abuse has left the wound unable to close, once again bleeding sluggishly through the bandage.

Turning his gaze from the injury to his husband, Vader feels his lips curl into a smirk. As much as he'd like to stay angry with Kenobi, he finds that he can not. Not when the man is struggling out of the mess of Anakin's blankets, wearing an expression of utter frustration. When he's bared to him except for his underclothes and Vader's claim is evident upon his pale skin in the dark bruising around his neck and in the handprints on his hips.

A voice in the back of Vader's mind informs him that Kenobi only let him take him to bed to distract him from bothering the children any more, but he's quick to smother it under the delight of having his husband again. He lives in a world of baby steps, when it comes to the newest additions to his life as the Emperor's Right Hand. A series of small concessions will get them the same place, in the end, and Obi-Wan always used to complain about his lack of patience.

Patience has gotten him from scathing words and physical blows to light touches and a few tender kisses. From there to here, with his husband once again in his bed, caught up in the throws of ecstasy as Vader brings them both pleasure. They have that now--Kenobi can not take that back.

Baby steps, too, will aid him in gaining his children's favor. Already the boy is starting to open up to him, their shared passion for all things mechanical aiding him in bridging the gap formed by his six-year absence. They even went to Vader's private hangar a few cycles ago, giving them both the opportunity to stretch their legs after weeks cooped up in Vader's quarters "bonding".

He will find a way to reach the girl, he thinks as he reaches off the bed, dragging Obi-Wan back up and pinning him to the mattress. Somehow, she will come to understand and appreciate him. For now, though, it's the middle of the night cycle. For now, his children are asleep. For now, he will take his husband again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can find me over on Tumblr if you have any requests! I'm glare-gryphon. For some reason it won't let me link it...


	20. Prompt: Punishment OT3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A DIFFERENT OT3 from my usual ObiAniDala oops. Sorry if it got your hopes up.
> 
> Rating: E
> 
> Pairing: Bail Organa/Anakin Skywalker/Obi-Wan Kenobi
> 
> Additional Tags: Modern AU, D/S Dynamics, Spanking, Sexual Content
> 
> Prompt: I wish you would write a fic... With the ultimate rare pair, Bail/Anakin. Maybe sugar baby/sub Anakin who failed a class and lied about it. Except it was Prof Kenobi's class, who is a very good friend of Bail's (Anakin didn't know). Hell, why not go for Bail and Kenobi tag teaming Anakin's punishment because they used to co-top when they were younger.

If there is one thing Anakin does not expect when he walks into Bail Organa’s office, it is finding his composition professor perched on the edge of the man’s elaborate desk, sipping tea from one of Bail’s expensive tea sets and talking with the man as though they’ve known each other forever. Bail says something, voice a low murmur, and Kenobi’s laughter rings out in the quiet of the office. His carefree smile twists at something in Anakin’s gut—that thing that always ached when Kenobi fixed him with the disappointed look he’d become so familiar with over the course of their semester together.

He tries to step out, tries to flee the oncoming confrontation, but the office door creaks when he tries to close it and suddenly two sets of sharp eyes have turned toward him.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Anakin says weakly when it becomes clear that neither man intends to say anything. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Bail waves a dismissive hand. “You’re not interrupting anything, Anakin. Please, come in. Lock the door behind you.”

Anakin does what he’s told before awkwardly making his way over to the chair on the opposite side of the desk as the two men. “I didn’t know that you two, um, know each other.”

“Ben is an old friend from college. We used to… frequent the same establishments. He dropped by to have a talk with me about you.”

“How did he even know we were—?” Anakin asks, feeling his cheeks burning.

“I overheard you speaking of your relationship with Bail to another student several weeks ago. Miss Amidala, I believe it was?” Kenobi shrugs, taking a long sip of his tea. “I didn’t put two and two together until just recently.”

“You can imagine my surprise then,” Organa cuts in, his disappointed tone cutting Anakin to the quick, “when Ben contacted me last night about your grades. Something about failing his composition final?”

If Anakin’s cheeks were not already burning, they certainly would have been at those words. Shame wells up in his chest, constricting his throat as hot tears well in his eyes. He’d hated lying to Bail, had come up with dozens of excuses he never quite believed, and in the end he’d found out anyways.

“We talked about this when this relationship began, Anakin,” Bail sighs. “You promised me that if you needed help with your studies, you would come to me and we would work it out. Instead I have to find out from your professor that you’ve not only been struggling, but failed the class entirely instead of reaching out.

“I’m disappointed in you, Anakin. Ben and I both know that you’re much better than this.”

The words are like a knife to his gut, and Anakin can’t meet either man’s eyes as he waits for the verdict. He expects Bail to drop him—just like that. Just like everyone in Anakin’s life has done when they realized just how difficult he can be.

So he’s surprised when Bail issues him a short command of, “Come here, Anakin.”

Anakin doesn’t let himself hope as he gets up out of his seat, keeping his gaze on the floor and making his way around the desk to where Organa and Kenobi sit.

“I’m not going to leave you, Anakin,” Bail says, as though he can pick up on the boy’s insecurities, “but we are going to have to talk about how we’re going to deal with this.”

“Yes, sir,” Anakin answers, hardly believing that such a wonderful Dom as Bail would want anything to do with him after this. It almost seems too good to be true.

“First, I think—” Bail hums, and pats his lap in a gesture Anakin has become intimately familiar with. His eyes go wide, gaze darting up and flickering from Bail’s own expectant expression to Kenobi, still perched just nearby. Surely he can’t mean? “Now, Anakin,” he snaps, and Anakin hastens to comply.

Kenobi’s expression remains serene and unbothered, watching on as Anakin bends over the other man’s lap. He’s finished his tea, setting the delicate cup aside as he observes the proceedings, and Anakin isn’t entirely sure this is actually happening. Is he seriously about to get punished in front of his professor? _We used to… frequent the same establishments,_ Bail had said, and Anakin puts two and two together. Anakin had thought he meant like… the same coffee shops or something.

The first swat comes down hard on his bare rear, sudden and unexpected, and draws a startled yelp from Anakin. Bail typically warns him before he begins, but apparently Anakin isn’t being granted that luxury today. Caught up as he was in his thoughts, he hadn’t even noticed the man pushing down the bands of his sweatpants and his boxers. “Count,” he demands.

“O-one, sir,” Anakin sputters out, followed very quickly by, “Two, sir.”

Three, four, five. Each slap against his ass as sharp and precise as Bail always is in punishment. Six, seven, eight. His skin is starting to burn, each new contact making it redder and more tender. Anakin knows he’s going to have a difficult time sitting in the near future. Nine, ten, eleven. Pain turns to arousal, his cock stiffening as it brushes against the fabric of Bail’s pant legs. He makes the mistake of letting his eyes wander, and they find Kenobi unerringly. His professor is watching the scene with an inscrutable expression, but there is something in his eyes that makes Anakin think he’s not quite as unaffected as he seems. Or maybe it’s just the way the line of his cock tents the front of khaki pants.

They make it to fifteen before Bail notices that Anakin’s attention has wandered, his counts now coming distant and airy. The older man’s eyes follow Anakin’s to their third party, and an indulgent smile curls his lips.

“See something you like, Ben?” He asks, and Anakin watches Kenobi’s face flush with the implication.

“I was only—” the man spits out, one hand coming up to stroke his beard anxiously, and Bail’s laughter cuts through his awkward sputtering.

“It’s fine, old friend,” the older man chuckles. “I know Anakin is quite exquisite.”

“He is,” Ben agrees weakly.

Bail pushes Anakin’s shirt up his chest, running a hand along the curve of his spine. Up to his shoulders and back down to his reddened ass, a soothing gesture. “You know,” he muses. “I’m sure Anakin wouldn’t mind if you wanted a turn with him. Would you, Anakin?”

Kenobi’s gaze darts back again, and there’s really no way to avoid it, splayed as he is on Bail’s lap. He’d only once mentioned his attraction to the man, back when he didn’t know that Kenobi and Bail had history, but it seems his Dom is indulging his fantasy. Anakin watches the way Kenobi’s hands clench at his sides, the way he licks his lips nervously. The erection he’s sporting confirms his own attraction to Anakin, but being put on the spot like this may be too much for the man.

He’s pleasantly surprised when Ben declares, “Only if you don’t mind sharing him.”

“Of course not,” Bail replies, and pushes Anakin gently off his lap.

The younger man fumbles for the band of his pants, trying to pull them up to cover his own arousal, but Kenobi’s hands on his wrists stop him.

“Come here, Anakin,” he says in the same firm tone he uses when criticizing Anakin for not doing his work, and Anakin’s knees go weaker than they already had been. He puts up no resistance when Kenobi guides him to the desk—when he bends Anakin over it and presses his chest down to the cool, wooden surface. “You wouldn’t happen to have—?”

“Ah, right here.” Anakin hears Bail reply, followed by the sound of a cap flipping open. “But I don’t have—”

“I can assure you that I’m clean, as of my last test. However, if it bothers you—”

“No, no, go right ahead.”

He starts at the feeling of Kenobi’s fingers brushing against his tender cheeks, cool and slick from the lube in contrast to the burning skin. He trails them down the boy’s crack, spreading his cheeks, and Anakin is filled with a deep satisfaction at his sharp intake of breath.

“I didn’t realize—”

“I thought it best to prepare for the possibility, this morning.”

Ben is careful as he removes the plug from Anakin’s entrance, prodding gently at his stretched hole once it’s out to ensure no damage has been done. Anakin bites down on the urge to tell him that he’s taken bigger—that this isn’t necessary. He quite enjoys being cared for, if he’s being honest with himself. Apparently satisfied with what he finds, Ben slicks Anakin’s entrance with more lubricant, and he hears the man doing the same to his cock.

The moan that slips loose from his throat when Ben sinks into him is obscene. Kenobi’s cock is thicker than Bail’s, a pleasant surprise. Anakin wouldn’t go so far as to say he’s size queen, but there is definitely something he finds exciting about taking something as large as his current partner’s cock. Ben offers him a moment to get used to his girth, using the time to adjust his grip on Anakin. One hand settles at the nape of his neck, pinning him face-first to the slick wood, while the other takes hold of his hip and changes the angle to his liking.

It starts slow—long, lazy thrusts of Ben’s hips nearly all the way out before he slides back in again. It doesn’t take long for the rhythm to escalate, however, with Anakin’s soft whines all but goading the man on. Before long he’s thrusting roughly into the younger man, pressing his face into the wood as he takes him over the desk. His breath comes in sharp, harsh pants, a whimper occasionally slipping through his teeth. Anakin can’t see him, but he’d Ben makes the most magnificent faces during sex.

Then, of course, he stops. Abruptly. And Anakin whines in confusion as Ben slides out of him.

“My apologies, Bail,” the man rumbles, pulling Anakin off the desk with his grip on the boy’s neck. “It seems I got a little carried away with myself.”

Anakin is spun to face his Dom, still sitting in his chair and apparently watching the proceedings. Bail’s pupils are blown wide with lust, the front of his pants stained with pre-come, but he doesn’t appear to have started touching himself yet. He’s directed to between Bail’s spread thighs, then pressed down on until he drops to his knees.

Hearing Kenobi kneeling behind him, he doesn’t need any further direction. He reaches up and works Bail’s pants open while Ben slicks himself up again, drawing the older man’s cock out and taking it into his mouth as Kenobi slips back into him. If he’d thought the pace was rough before, it is nothing compared to now.

Now, with the man’s hands digging into his hips and Bail’s finger tangled in his hair. He alternates between pushing back into Ben’s thrusts, seeing stars when the man’s dick brushes against that wonderful spot inside him, and taking his Dom further into his mouth. He knows how Bail likes it—knows just how to curl his tongue around the head, how to drag his teeth along the shaft, how to take the man deep into his mouth until he’s almost choking on him. Anakin knows how to make Bail come undone.

His own pleasure is forgotten as he works toward that goal, bracing his hands against the man’s thighs and feeling them tense as he approaches his climax. Behind him, Kenobi’s pace is faltering, the previously smooth rhythm falling apart. Anakin absently thinks that it’s a good thing Bail had his office soundproofed years ago, considering all the noise they’re making.

Then Bail is spilling into his mouth, his seed warm and bitter on Anakin’s tongue, and Ben is shoving deep into him as he comes. He holds Anakin’s hips tight to his own, grinds against him, and the sensation being _filled_ so completely is enough that Anakin follows them, spilling onto carpet completely untouched.

“That was—” he gasps when Bail’s softening cock slides from his mouth, the man hastening to clean himself up with the supply of rags he keeps under the desk. Kenobi is still inside him, slumped over Anakin’s back and panting into the crook of his neck.

“You will be retaking Ben’s class next semester, Anakin,” Bail informs him as the man in question finally slips free, accepting another rag to begin cleaning up himself and Anakin. “I’m sure he would be happy to work with me about… keeping an eye on you.”

Ben chuckles weakly, but it’s enough of an agreement. Anakin feels something warm swell in his chest as he looks between the two men, both sweaty and panting, and finds himself looking forward to next semester.


	21. Prompt: Desert Part 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all know this AU by now. Not bothering with the regular format.
> 
> Prompt: For your Vaderwan series on tumblr -- ahaha, maybe the way Vader bonds with Leia is wreaking terrible vengeance upon someone who harms Obi-Wan?

By the time Vader senses the growing _intention_ in the Force—the dark, twisted thing that blooms to life on the other side of the star destroyer, he knows he will be too late to stop whatever is about to happen. There is no way he can cover that distance, even with the Force as his ally. That does not stop him from taking off in a sprint in the direction of his husband and his children and the ugly, black cloud that hovers around him.

The presence of Jedi General Obi-Wan Kenobi aboard the star destroyer has caused an understandable unrest among the ship’s imperial inhabitants. While the clones had been easy to talk into relaxing around Kenobi, the memories of days under his trusted command still lurking in the backs of their minds; it had taken but the right Force manipulation to bring them to the forefront. The regular, human staff, however, are another matter entirely. The propaganda sent out to the general public since the fall of the Republic has painted the Jedi as liars, traitors, and criminals. No amount of reassurances from Vader has been able to talk them down from their hostility.

When he gave Kenobi his own code cylinder and permission to leave the rooms Vader calls his own, he knew there would eventually be a confrontation. Still, as he fears the sharp spike of terror from his children, feels an echo of pain rip through his Obi-Wan’s gut, he will admit that he had hoped to be there to play interference when it did.

The places Obi-Wan’s code cylinder will allow him are limited. The public mess, several lounges, the gym. Nowhere with any long-distance coms, or anywhere he could gain access to any means of escape. While Vader could not keep the man and their children locked up any longer without rising some kind of fallout, that didn’t mean he had to make it easy on Kenobi. As such, Vader only has to glance into a few door when he arrives on what the Force indicates to be the right floor before he finds the source of the commotion.

Inside one of the lounges is a small crowd of officers, standing in a circle around another and jostling for a better of whatever is going on in the center. Even with Vader’s impressive height, he cannot see over the heads of his officers. Instead he is forced to push through them until his presence is noticed, at which point they part around him and give an unimpeded view of the scene before him.

At the center of the crowd stands a single officer, a vibroblade clutched in the man’s hand. He towers over the much form of a child— _his_ child. Leia Skywalker stands before the officer—whose weapon is stained with ugly, red blood—chest puffed out and chin raised high. She glares up at the man, teeth bared in a fierce snarl, fearless of the threat the officer poses. Her eyes are not their usual soft brown, but a fiery, molten gold.

Behind her are her brother and father, their clothes stained red with the same blood that drips from their attacker’s blade. It seeps through Luke’s small fingers, pressed ineffectively to the wound gaping in Obi-Wan’s gut. His eyes are glassy with tears, but still their natural shade of blue. Obi-Wan each breath comes ragged and harsh, his Force-presence reaching out for Vader’s, seeking comfort, like it hasn’t since long before the events of Mustafar.

Leia must spot him from where she stands, because her snarl morphs in a smug grin. The officer only knows why when the red of Vader’s lightsaber pierces through his back and protrudes from his chest. He falls lifeless to the ground when Vader deactivates the weapon, and the crowd skitters backwards when their commander turns to address them.

“Would anyone else like to try something?” he growls, and is met with only downturned eyes and the permeating stench of fear within the Force. “Good,” he hisses before turning back to his family, bending to scoop Kenobi into his arms.

Luke and Leia do not need to be commanded to follow, tagging at his heels as they make their way to the medical bay tended by Kix. Vader does not trust the enlisted crew enough to allow them access to his defenseless husband—not after this. The clones will care for Obi-Wan as one of their own.

Obi-Wan is swept away by the medic as soon as they arrive in the bay, another coming soon after to collect Luke and clean the boy up. Vader is left alone with his daughter for perhaps the first time since their arrival on his ship, seated side by side in chairs by the bed Obi-Wan will occupy once he’s out of surgery. Despite being one of the most feared beings in the galaxy, Vader can’t help but feel… horribly awkward around the child. Perhaps it is the years he missed; perhaps it is the memory of metal plunging into his leg with all the force the child could manage.

“What will happen if they come after us again?” Leia asks, disrupting the quiet of the bay.

It is an easy question. “I will kill them.”

She looks at him, her eyes still stained a gold that matches his own, and nods approvingly. “Good,” she declares.

Baby steps, Vader reminds himself as he feels her approval warm something in his chest. His is a world of baby steps.

 


	22. Prompt: Instinct

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "...how about Alpha Obiwan who when in rut tends to loose himself in his (very protective) instincts, while Omega!Anakin very much keeps his head and is very aware of what goes on around him but still willing to indulge Obiwan's somewhat ridiculous alpha instincts"

The negotiations had been a long and arduous process, and Anakin is exhausted by the time he and Obi-Wan finally stumble into their shared quarters aboard the latter’s star destroyer. Dealing with politicians has never been his specialty, and even if the first stages of pre-heat weren’t burning under his skin, he would have found this particular group trying. They’ve been talking in circles for days, unwilling to cede to the Republic’s requests of them but equally against calling their meeting a loss.

Anakin sinks gingerly onto the blanket-covered, durasteel frame that would, in another situation, hold his mattress. It has been missing for several days, however, and he learned long ago that attempting to get it back would simply be more trouble than it’s worth. He can take a few days without its padding if it means he doesn’t have to listen to Kenobi grumble about it.

Obi-Wan, however, doesn’t seem to remember that he moved their mattresses and, before Anakin can get out a word of warning, throws himself unceremoniously down backwards atop his own blanket-covered frame. He hits the covered durasteel with a muted _whump_ , breath rushing from him in a low, wheezing groan. Anakin winces in sympathy as the man lays there for a long moment, staring blankly at the ceiling.

“Anakin?” He asks, sounding dazed.

“Yes, Master?” Anakin replies, and can’t quite keep the amusement bubbling up at the Alpha’s misfortune out of his voice.

“Why does my mattress appear to be missing?”

“I’m going into heat.”

“…I see. Where—?”

“The closet.”

Anakin has never had much of a nesting instinct, which is fortunate, he supposes, considering that Obi-Wan Kenobi has enough to cover for the both of them. Anakin slides off his cot as Ob-Wan pushes himself to his feet, following the Alpha as he wanders over to their closet. The walk-in had seemed exorbitant when considering the humble lives Jedi live, but the layout had come standard in all officer’s quarters. The man sighs as he opens the door and flicks on the light, taking in the mess before him.

Both of their mattresses have been crammed into the space, spare linens and tunics providing additional layers of padding against the cool, durasteel floor. Tucked into the spaces between the mattress and the wall are the ration packs that Anakin has watched Obi-Wan smuggle from the mess over the last few days. There are also several filled canteens, easily accessible but still far enough away from the main nest that they will not get knocked over during the course of Anakin’s heat. It is, as far as nests go, pretty standard to what the Alpha typically throws together.

The man stares at it, scrubbing a hand over his beard and wearing an expression of mild concern. “I don’t remember—?”

He never remembers—never sees to realize what it is he’s doing. As soon as the first signs of pre-heat show themselves, however, he can be counted on to begin his elaborate nesting process. It’s a routine Anakin finds more endearing than anything, though the Alpha is always embarrassed about the mess when he finally surfaces from the clutches of his rut. He would make a good father, Anakin sometimes allows himself to think, if the Omega were not on a strict birth control regimen administered by the Temple’s healers. A good mate, if not for the Jedi’s policy on attachments.

Maybe, after the war…

“How long do you think you have before the full heat hits?” Obi-Wan asks.

Anakin shrugs. “Maybe a day or two?”

The Alpha nods, more to himself than anything. “I suppose we’ll have to wrap up these negotiations quickly, then.”


	23. Prompt: Submission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "...modern au anibail and their first meeting"

Padme’s hand is warm where it rests at the small of his back, the gentle pressure she exerts the only thing keeping him moving toward the door of the small club. She bypasses the line waiting on the sidewalk outside, flashing the bouncer a flirtatious smile and giving him their names. They must be on some kind of list, because the large man opens the elaborately styled front door and waves them through.

“I don’t think I can do this,” Anakin whines, trying his best to dig his heels in. His girlfriend, however, is insistent, keeping him moving through the crowd. The music is loud in his ears, but doesn’t seem to bother the other patrons. Maybe it’s just him.

“Do you not want to do this because you’re nervous, or because you _really_ don’t want this?”

“What if I don’t like it?” He asks, and his voice is quiet. Small. The way he feels as she guides him through the seating area and toward a booth at the back.

“Do you remember when I asked you to tie me up a couple weeks ago?”

“Yes,” Anakin says stiffly. “And you hated it.”

“What did we do, when I decided I didn’t like it?”

“…we stopped?”

“That’s right,” Padme praises. “And if you, at any point tonight, decide you don’t want this—you can stop. You can call me, and I’ll come pick you up. He won’t get offended if you decide you two just don’t click, or whatever. This is just a trial run.”

“You make this all sound a lot simpler than it is…” Anakin grumbles.

Padme laughs, a bright, melodious thing. He’s always loved her laugh. “You just like making things more difficult than they need to be,” she teases.

Anakin _harrumphs_ unhappily, but can’t find the words to argue with her. She’s right, of course. Anakin has a habit of expecting the worst and, if he’s being honest, he really does want to try this. A small part of him still wishes it could be Padme, but he gets it. She isn’t experienced with this sort of thing, and they already know that she doesn’t particularly like it. And since she knows someone who can help, it would be a waste of resources not to at least give it a try.

The man sitting at the booth Padme steers him toward is, at least physically, the kind of man Anakin could picture himself submitting to. Tall, broad-shouldered, heavy around the center in the way of middle-aged men. His dark hair is tinged at the temples with just the first beginnings of grey, which carries over into a neatly manicured moustache and beard. His eyes light up when he catches sight of Padme, waving her over with a warm grin. Anakin feels a light blush rise to his cheeks when the man’s attention shifts from her to him, those eye flickering up and down as he takes Anakin in.

When they get close enough, he rises to his feet to greet them. Padme gets a hug, a sign of their familiarity. Anakin gets a lingering handshake, the man clearly hesitant of overstepping boundaries so early in their relationship. “It’s so nice to meet you,” he says, ushering Anakin into the booth. “My name is Bail Organa; I work with Padme, as I’m sure she’s told you.”

“Anakin Skywalker,” he replies.

Padme doesn’t follow him, instead leaning down to drop a kiss to his cheek. “I’ll leave you to it,” she announces. “Call me when you’re done. Love you.”

“Love you, too,” Anakin answers, and then she is gone, sweeping back out of the club and leaving him alone with Organa.

* * *

 

“Padme didn’t like this…” Anakin mumbles as Bail continues to weave soft rope around Anakin’s body, the knots he ties creating an intricate pattern across his skin. He briefly wonders if it could be considered rude to talk about one one’s girlfriend while someone else is tying you up. He can’t seem to stop himself, however; he’s always been a nervous talker, and concentration has rendered Bail mostly silent. He’s only spoken to make sure the bonds aren’t too tight. That he’s not uncomfortable with anything done to him so far.

“And how do you like it?” Bail asks, keeping with his pattern.

Anakin takes a long moment to consider it, as had been requested of him when all this first began. Physically, the rope doesn’t chafe or itch, doesn’t seem to be cutting off circulation to anything. Mentally, he’s feeling… good. Not trapped, or pinned down. Just held in a comfortable grip. “I feel nice.”

Bail grins at him, a soft thing that makes something warm bloom in Anakin’s chest. “Good.”

When he finishes trying the last knot, Bail hoists him up off his knees and over his shoulder with a surprising display of strength. Anakin cannot quite suppress his startled yelp, which draws a low chuckle from Organa. The older man carries him to a low table across the room, setting him gently down on the cool surface and arranging him to his liking. Anakin relaxes his muscles, remains willing and pliant as Bail gets him situated. “I was thinking we could start with something simple. Maybe a bit of sensation play, if you’re interested in that? It’s too early for anything more sexual, I think.”

“That’s fine,” Anakin hums, watching Bail dig around in the small bag of supplies he’d brought with them.

“You do know what I’m talking about, right?” Organa asks over his shoulder, pausing in the process of pulling things out.

Anakin has to bite back a reflexive _yes_. While he is eager to move forward with whatever Bail has planned, he had promised not to lie to the man back when this encounter first began. “I mean… not really? I’m still pretty new to all this, but I’d still be willing to try it.”

His answer sounds weak even to his own ears, and it draws a weary sigh from Organa. The man begins to pack things back into the bag, and Anakin whines unhappily at the development. With the rope tied around him, Anakin can’t struggle too terribly much, but his protest is still enough to get Bail’s attention. “W-wait, no—”

A warm hand settles flat on his chest, stilling him instantly. Bail is suddenly standing over him, looking down at Anakin with a scrunched brow and a frown. “Anakin,” the man says, “you can’t even tell me what it is I’m talking about. If you don’t know the full extent of what you’re getting into, you can’t properly give consent.”

“So explain it,” Anakin huffs, frustrated. They were just getting to the good part!

“No,” Organa replies, voice firm. “I’m sorry, I got carried away with myself; we should have discussed more of what you wanted from the scene before we began. I’m afraid this is as far as we go tonight.”

He reaches for the end of the rope, as though intending to untie it, and Anakin flinches away from his hand insomuch as he can. “Please—” he whines. “Please. Can we leave these on? Just a while longer?”

Bail’s frown morphs into a small grin, something fond and indulgent. “Of course.”

The man settles on the table at his side, running his hands through Anakin’s hair as he talks about is job, and Anakin loses himself in the pleasantness of his tone and the feeling of security that washes over him.


	24. Prompt: Instinct Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "...how about abo au where Anakin has his first heat and Obi-Wan sees him through it?"

In hindsight, Anakin supposes that they all should have seen it coming.

It begins mere days after the events of Geonosis. While Obi-Wan had been cleared from the Healing Halls, the injuries he sustained in combat quickly patched up by liberally applied bacta patches, Anakin’s own wounds would take much longer to heal. First there were the surgeries to repair what damage they could to the flesh where his arm now ended, preparing it for the prosthetic the Jedi Order was springing to supply. Then of course, there was the attachment and subsequent recovery. It would be weeks before the Omega was allowed back into the day-to-day life of the the Temple, but Obi-Wan seemed intent on keeping him company through it all.

It’s chalked up to post-traumatic stress when Anakin’s Alpha mentor had hovers around his recovery room, agitated and antsy. He rarely leaves Anakin’s side, a dark storm cloud within the Force as he snaps and snarls at the attending healers who linger too long. Whose hands brush along the skin of his neck as they take his pulse or check the healing of bruising. Anakin quickly loses count of the number of times his pillows are fluffed or rearranged; has to strip the bed of blankets Obi-Wan keeps finding Force-knows-where or risk overheating in his sleep; has to hide food in increasingly odd places because Obi-Wan fusses when he doesn’t eat it, but just keeps bringing more when he notices it gone.

And maybe the stress was a factor. The Order was not prepared for the fallout of true combat, and many Knights with wounded or dead Padawan displayed similar behavior in the days following the Battle of Geonois. The Healing staff were exhausted, overworked, trying their best to provide aid to so many unruly patients. Rumor had it that they had to sedate several aggrieved Masters to separate them from their young charge’s bodies and prepare them for their funerals. They were likely too grateful that Kenobi was allowing them near Anakin at all to consider a deeper possibility behind his strange behavior.

No one thinks twice until Anakin wakes in a sweat, panting and writhing and _aching_ to be _hadtakenfilled_.

It takes three healers to drag Kenobi off him, wild-eyed and spitting like an enraged loth-cat. Two more to hold Anakin down while they wrestle the Alpha from the room. It is probably for the best that neither of them have very fine control over the Force at the moment, or there would have been more injuries than the blackened eye Obi-Wan gives one of the healers on his way out the door.

Still, the distance does nothing to alleviate the tension. He can feel his Master through the Force Bond that connects them, can feel the Alpha’s rage at being separated from Anakin. They haven’t moved him far—likely to a room just down the hall—but Rut is like a haze over the man’s mind, the drive to get to Anakin overwhelming his usually cool composure. Anakin can feel his frustration boiling under his own skin. Knowing that the Alpha is so close and unable to get to him makes his solitude all the worse.

It’s the middle of the night when the cover to the large air vent in the ceiling crashes to the ground, startling Anakin out of the doze he’d finally managed to fall into. He watches through sleep-bleary eyes as someone drops from the vent, and while it is too dark in the room to make out who it is on sight alone, Anakin doesn’t worry. Victory blazes through the Bond, and when he breathes in, his lungs are filled with Obi-Wan’s unique scent—like the Sencha Green tea he prefers mixed with something he can’t quite identify, but finds he enjoys nonetheless.

The Omega’s breath comes in shallow, excited pants as the Alpha makes his over to the bed. For all his earlier haste, his approach is a slow, leisurely thing. Anakin had long ago stripped himself bare, sweat and slick having soaked through his clothes, making them sticky and uncomfortable. Obi-Wan loses his own as he nears, leaving a trail of beige linen from the vent to the bed.

“Knew they couldn’t keep you away for long,” Anakin breathes, wiggling over to one side of the cot to make space for Kenobi.

The Alpha hums a confirmation, dragging Anakin back into the center of the bed and flipping him over onto his belly before he climbs up. Obi-Wan pushes his legs apart, fitting himself between them and draping himself over Anakin’s trembling form. The feel of the man’s weight atop him settles an itch at the back of his mind that Anakin didn’t know he was feeling. He wants to reach back, to lose himself in the feel of warm skin and firm muscle, but he fists his hands in the sheets instead as Obi-Wan’s breath ghosts over his neck, as his long hair tickles at the backs of Anakin’s shoulders. The sensation of the Alpha’s hands skimming down his sides, curling around his hips, raises gooseflesh on his skin.

The moment is ruined, however, when the head of the Alpha’s cock presses suddenly against his entrance. “Hey!” Anakin yelps, squirming away from the pressure, “Haven’t you ever heard of foreplay?”

Obi-Wan growls at him—honest to gods _growls_ ; who knew Rut would make his Mentor nonverbal?—and reaches out to pin the wriggling Omega. One hand curls around his throat, applying enough pressure to still him without cutting off air or circulation, while the other arm wraps firmly around his chest to hold him in place. The Alpha’s breath comes in wet, excited pants in his ear as he grinds against Anakin’s ass, coating his cock in the Omega’s slick, and Anakin shudders at the feeling of being trapped. Pinned. It’s not… bad, this feeling. Not with Obi-Wan’s scent clinging to the inside of his nose and mouth. It’s submission, pure and simple, and finds the tension in his body uncoiling the longer Kenobi holds him there.

Just in time, it seems, as Kenobi’s cock is pressing at his entrance again. The usually tight opening may be more relaxed than usual because of the Heat, but it would have been agony if Anakin had remained as tense as he was. The initial intrusion is still anything but painless, seeing as Anakin has never taken anything more than a few fingers in his explorations. Obi-Wan’s cock is unquestionably larger than that, both in length and in girth. Anakin has to bite down on his lower lip to keep from crying out.

The Alpha is, at least, patient as he forces himself into Anakin’s body. Slow, shallow thrusts stretch the Omega open, ensuring that he feels every inch of Kenobi’s length as it fills him up. Obi-Wan presses soft kisses to anywhere he can reach as he works, likely hoping to distract Anakin from the pain; it only kind of works.

By the time he’s fully seated, Anakin is outright whimpering. He can feel Obi-Wan’s pleasure battering at him through the Bond, the desperate need to _havetakeclaim_ , but the Alpha does his best to allow Anakin time to adjust. His hips twitch in aborted thrusts, and the Omega has to marvel at the self-control it must be taking to not just blindly drive into him.

A small part of him wishes Obi-Wan would talk to him, but the rest of him is glad he can’t. He doesn’t know what he would say, if he did. He certainly wouldn’t ask the man to stop—not with the heat still boiling under his skin. He needs this: an Alpha’s cock filling him up. _His_ Alpha’s cock, as he is certain nothing could stop Obi-Wan from taking and knotting him, now. He just wishes it weren’t so damn painful.

“Please,” he gasps, when the pain of the initial stretch has faded into a background ache. “Alpha, please.”

With a final kiss to the back of Anakin’s shoulder, Kenobi obliges his request. Long, deep thrusts, pulling nearly all the way out of Anakin before he rocks back into the younger man. It still aches, but the pleasure that sparks down with his spine with every one of the man’s thrusts helps to alleviate it. Before long, he almost doesn’t even notice the burn, the overwhelming feeling of being filled dominating his thoughts.

“Harder,” he moans out, and he hears the Alpha’s delighted, rumbling purr.

The only warning he gets is Obi-Wan adjusting his grip to hold Anakin more firmly before the Alpha slams back into him. This pace is fast and hard and everything Anakin needs, dragging pleasured whines and moans from the Omega’s throat. The hand around his throat squeezes, constricting his airway, and Anakin probably shouldn’t find the sensation as arousing as he does.

He manages to work a hand under himself, working at his own dripping length with quick tugs and twists of his wrist. It only seems to encourage Obi-Wan, gripping tighter and driving harder as he meets resistance. His knot is beginning to swell, catching on Anakin’s rim as he thrusts. It’s a curious sensation, but not entirely unpleasant at first. The more the knot swells, however, the more uncomfortable it becomes as his entrance stretches to accommodate the intrusion.

Obi-Wan’s final, full thrust draws an indignant squawk from Anakin, his knot pressing past the rim and locking inside the Omega’s body. He’s immediately distracted from the knot, however, when the Alpha begins to spill inside him, his hot seed filling Anakin up and sating the hunger that burns beneath his skin. Kenobi continues to grind against him, gasping and shuddering, and Anakin follows him over the edge is their Bond is flooded with the man’s pleasure and satisfaction. Teeth snap in the air, a hairsbreadth from the place the Alpha would have bitten down to Mark him—restraint shown even in the haze of orgasm.

Limp and exhausted, Obi-Wan collapses atop him, dragging them both down to the wet, sticky sheets. Both Alpha and Omega gasp for breath, Kenobi dazedly petting whatever part of Anakin he happens to be able to reach. A contented purr rumbles in his throat as the man dozes off, and Anakin finds himself quickly following.

An unfortunate healer will find them that way, Obi-Wan still knotted inside him and dozing across Anakin’s back. The matter will be promptly reported to the Council, and they’ll receive a very stern summons to speak when available. It will be another two days before the heat passes fully, spent in a haze of lust and pleasure, but when they come untied for the last time and have a chance to clean themselves up, they report to the Council with all due diligence.

Predictably, the Council will be furious, going on about things like purity, the spirit of the Force, and the sacred Bond between Master and Padawan. Obi-Wan will nod along with their words and, after they’d fallen silent, tell them how horrible the whole thing makes him feel. How sorry he is for his lapse in control.

But he must not truly be as remorseful as he claims, because he will take Anakin with the same enthusiasm during his next heat. And the next. And every heat that followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> U'll noticed I've stopped tagging things. I've run out of patience for it, unless the prompt is really vague.


	25. Prompt: After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Things you said after you kissed me

When Obi-Wan pulls away from him, there is something in his eyes that nearly tears Anakin apart. Something vulnerable—like shame and dread and a blinding, desperate hope all at once—and Anakin desperately wishes to the stars that he hadn’t asked. That when the Council scolded Obi-Wan for his attachments, Anakin had allowed his old Master to slink away and lock his embarrassment behind the walls he has always been so fond of instead of pressing and pressing and pressing until—

He reaches up with trembling hands, untangling Obi-Wan’s fingers from the iron grip they have around his tunics, and presses the back the the man’s chest as gently as he can manage. He can’t meet Obi-Wan’s eyes, but can’t look away either, instead watching the realization set in in the faltering of the weak smile he’s worn since they broke away. Since Obi-Wan grabbed him and dragged him in, kissing him with desperation of a man condemned and—

  
“Anakin?” Obi-Wan breathes, soft and confused and so, so broken.

“I’m so sorry, Obi-Wan,” Anakin says, letting go of the older man’s hands and watching them fall limply to his sides. Watching them curl into fists until his fingernails bite into his skin, shaking with the strain and the emotion, and Anakin can’t meet his friend’s eyes. Can’t look him in the face, because to do so would break him. “I don’t feel—I’m seeing someone. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—“

He’s made an ass of himself, his face flushed with shame. He pressured Obi-Wan into this: into revealing his affections when neither of them were prepared for it. Because he cannot reciprocate those feelings. Not with a wife and children on the way, not with a the Jedi Council watching and a war hanging over their heads. He has damaged their friendship, perhaps beyond repair, and now he can’t even look the other man in the eye.

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps, and he turns on his heel, sweeping out of their shared quarters without so much as a glance back. He cannot bear to see the hurt that he has inflicted, however unintentional that wound may have been.

In the end, Anakin only makes it as far as the nearest meditation room, blessedly empty of any other occupants, before he collapses against the wall in a heap of soft, hiccuping sobs. As he scrubs at the tears that liberally flow, he can’t help but wonder if they can ever go back to the way things were before, or if his arrogance had just ruined things between them forever.


	26. Prompt: Alternative

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: In the Negotiation-verse what would it be like if instead of the whole drugging and kidnapping business, they ended up sorting out the kiss and dating. Anakin has no idea his boyfriend is a serial killer.

A sharp rap at Anakin’s office door draws the detective’s attention away from the mountain of reports piled up on his desk. With no major leads to chase at the moment, he’s been working on filling them out all morning and is grateful for whatever reprieve that the day can provide.

When he’d first become an officer, he couldn’t believe how much paperwork was involved in the day-to-day operations of a police station. He’d hated it then, and he still hates it now. Usually he tries to shove it off on Quinlan whenever he thinks he can get away with it, but Ventress has swept Vos away for some business conference she has to attend overseas and now Anakin is stuck catching up on both of their overdue reports. He supposes that turnabout is fair play, no matter how much he would like to complain otherwise.

“Come in,” he calls, swiveling his office chair toward the door just in time for it to crack open, revealing one Coruscant University professor, Obi-Wan Kenobi.

“Is now a bad time?” Kenobi asks, leaning against the doorframe with a wry smile on his lips, as though already predicting Anakin’s answer.

“Never a bad time for you,” Anakin replies, moving files off his desk in attempt to clear a place for Obi-Wan to sit while the other man closes the door behind him. He doesn’t here the soft  _snick_ of the lock, caught up as he is in his work, but he does notice the smirk on Kenobi’s lips when the man settles into the space he cleared. “What brought you over this way, babe?”

Obi-Wan shrugs. “Had a class cancelled, and just wanted to see you. I don’t need an excuse to do that, do I?”

“No, I suppose you don’t.”

Apparently satisfied, Obi-Wan turns his attention to the files on Anakin’s desk. While it is technically against the rules for Kenobi to be thumbing through them as though they were magazines in the checkout lanes of grocery stores, Anakin doesn’t see any particular harm in it. His partner is discreet, and isn’t the type to go blabbing about the detective’s cases to anyone he knows. Not like their social life is particularly riveting anyways, with most of their friends connected to the police force by way of Anakin’s employment. Really, there was no one to gossip with who wasn’t already in the loop; while Obi-Wan was popular enough with his coworkers, he didn’t maintain any particularly close relationships with any of them.

“Why was your class cancelled?” Anakin asks as Obi-Wan shifts paperwork around, digging through them to find something that catches his interest. Most of what is on Anakin’s desk these days is common muggings and break-ins. Tedious work, but essential toward keeping the general population of Coruscant safe. He sometimes thinks he would like something more exciting, but the more rational part of him knows that there will plenty of that come the Christmas season. He should spend the off months luxuriating in picking up petty thieves instead of internal organs.

A hum of satisfaction marks Obi-Wan having found something he likes, and the man answers with his nose buried in the pages of the file. “Not enough students registered. Apparently my Survey of Shakespeare course doesn’t have quite the same draw as it used to.”

“Kids today have no respect for the classics,” Anakin replies, not because he himself has any particular interest in the works of a long-dead playwright, but because he knows Kenobi likes to grumble about the decay of society and youths today.

Leaning over in his chair to get a view of the file his partner is reading, Anakin is not particularly surprised to find the Negotiator file in the man’s hands once again. Since the start of their relationship, he’s shown a keen interest in following along with the case as Anakin attempts to track down the most prolific serial killer prowling Coruscant’s streets. This is hardly uncommon; nearly everyone he’s ever met are curious about the Negotiator case, as high-profile as it is.

“Do you think you’re any closer to catching him?” Obi-Wan asks, drawing a picture from the disorder and holding it up to the light as though to get a better look.

It’s of one of the latest cycle’s crime scenes, another of Anakin’s not-quite brothers left brutalized and bared for the world to see. The pattern has changed again, much to Anakin’s frustration. While before they knew the Negotiator was luring his victims with sex, the seduction seems to have trailed off entirely with his newest set of victims. In its place are drugs—the cheap kind, easy to get on the street and difficult to trace for their prolific nature—slipped into drinks at busy clubs with distracted bartenders.

The level of brutality in these murders had risen with the exclusion of sex, each victim bearing more of the bruising and evidence of assault only sporadically found in older victims. The scenes themselves had changed as well, no longer as careful and precise as they once were. Not rushed, by any means, or sloppy. Not enough to leave evidence behind. But Anakin, when he looked at the cuts and the gaping, open wounds, could tell that each one had not been given the same careful consideration they once might have received.

“Not really,” Anakin confesses, and Obi-Wan frowns as he draws another picture from the file. The Negotiator’s pattern had always been consistent, its one drastic change clearly instigated by Anakin arrival on the case. What had caused this most recent change, he can’t quite figure out. There are a few pieces, in the rush of his work, but they connect to nothing of significance. No events that Anakin can identify.

“Made a bit of a mess, didn’t it…” the man mutters distastefully, more to himself than to Anakin as he grimaces at the picture. It had been a mess, blood usually drained away left cool and tacky on the floor and of the county library. Limbs has been shelved neatly away with the books, the head and heart sitting on the librarian’s desk when police arrived. There was no note for Anakin, nor had there been one this whole cycle. He’s unsure whether or not this comes as a relief that the targeting has stopped, or as warning that his nemesis had begun to lose interest in their game.

“It was messier than usual.” Anakin informs his partner. “I told the guys—I think he had a workstation somewhere, and for whatever reason, he can’t get back to it as much anymore. He’s having to work on fly, and it’s not as clean as it might have been otherwise,”

Obi-Wan hums thoughtfully, offering the younger man a wry smile as he replaces the picture and sets the file aside. “Perhaps he has someone to go home to, at the end of the night.”

Anakin chuckles at the jest. “Is there true love for serial killers?”

“There’s true love for anyone, if you look within the pages of literature,” Obi-Wan replies, leaning over to run his fingers through Anakin’s hair. “Princes and paupers, knights and beggars.”

Anakin doesn’t resist when his partner uses his grip on his hair to draw him over, leaning eagerly across the desk and into Obi-Wan’s space. “Cops and serial killers; you and me,” the man breathes, and pulls Anakin into a kiss that is anything but chaste.

Obi-Wan, he has come to find since their initial encounter, is an excellent kisser. When they’re together, it’s like the world around them fades away, as cliché as it sounds. He never used to think it a thing that could actually happen, but when it comes to Obi-Wan, he supposes it makes sense. The man himself is almost a cliché at times, seemingly walking straight out of Anakin’s teenage wet dreams. It’s easy to lose himself in Kenobi—so much so that he almost doesn’t notice the man sliding off the desk, shuffling around to where Anakin sits, until he’s upended from his chair. Until Kenobi is bending him over the flat of his desk, tugging his pants down and freeing Anakin’s achingly hard cock from the confines of his slacks.

Another cliché.

“You planned this,” Anakin accuses when he hears the distinctive sound of a cap opening. He tries to turn around, but the hand at the base of skull, pinning him to the desk, only presses harder to still the movement.

“More hoped than planned, really,” Obi-Wan replies calmly, even as Anakin bucks in surprise at the sensation of cool lube drizzled between his cheeks. “I confess that this has always been a fantasy of mine, and when you mentioned Detective Vos stepping out of the office for a few days, well… I am quite the opportunist, my dear.”

“You do know you’re supposed to discuss these things with your partner first, right?” Anakin grumbles, but still finds himself pressing back against the slick fingers that have begun to work him open. “What if somebody were to walk in? You’re not the only one in demand of my attention, you know.”

Obi-Wan curls his fingers in a way he knows Anakin likes, dragging a ragged moan that the detective has to stifle with his fist when the man’s actions send pleasure racing up his spine. “The door is locked; if you’re quiet, no one will ever know what we’re up to.” He murmurs as leans forward, nipping at the shell of Anakin’s ear. His fingers slip from Anakin’s hole with a last stretch, the sound of a zipper being undone quickly following. “You can be quiet, can’t you dear? For me?”

Anakin nods rapidly; he can be good for Obi-Wan. As much as he’d protested, the thought of getting caught—or someone knowing—comes with an unexpected rush of excitement. He wouldn’t have thought himself and exhibitionist before Obi-Wan came along, but then, his new parter had proven himself talented in dragging parts of Anakin to the light that he hadn’t even known were tucked away.

“That’s a good boy.”

Breath coming in excited pants, Anakin adjusts his grip on the desk as Obi-Wan slicks himself up. He has to bite down on his lower lip as the man spreads his cheeks, the blunt head of his dick pressing up against Anakin’s stretched hole. The feeling of Obi-Wan pushing into him is a familiar sensation now, but he remembers what it was like the first time they made love. Remembers how nervous he was, splayed out on the man’s bed. Remembers how gentle his partner had been, as though Anakin would shatter if handled too roughly.

He is not always so gentle now, not that Anakin minds, and today is no exception. He gives Anakin time to adjust of course, aware of the length and girth of his cock, but once Anakin pushes back against him in unspoken permission, he quickly finds a pace that has the younger man’s hips biting into the edge of the desk with every thrust, that keeps him pushing back and taking Obi-Wan deeper simply to stop from sliding up into stacks of papers he hadn’t cleared aside when this encounter began.

One of Obi-Wan’s hands lays over his own as the man thrusts roughly into him, their fingers entwining, and Anakin realizes that his palm lays on the open Negotiator file that Obi-Wan had set aside. His eyes catch for a moment on the pale, bloodless faces of his unfortunate look-alikes, and something twisted in the back of his mind wonders if they liked what the Negotiator gave them. If they enjoyed being stretched and filled and taken the way he enjoys being under Obi-Wan. If they regretted it in those moments before he killed them, or if they even had a chance to think about it.

When they’re done, clothes adjusted and Obi-Wan sweeping from the door with a last kiss goodbye, Anakin has to close the file and stow it away in a drawer of the desk he’d just been taken over. Must throw himself into the work despite the lingering scents of sweat and sex, to keep his mind busy. Must think of other things, despite the feeling of Obi-Wan’s cum leaking from him, because if he doesn’t, he can’t help but wonder what would happen if the Negotiator found him, and if he’d like it too.


End file.
